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OB 3 


ranfiD BT WOOD? ALL urD xiin>niy 





A Martyr to Mairimooy, 317. 
A Picture of Spanish Manners, 568. 
August in the Mountains, 896. 
Aunt Fatty's Fattens, 385. 

Blackbnme, E. Owens, A Martyr to Matri- 
mony, 817. 

Boccaccio's Decameron, Tales from, 526. 

Brindisi to Cairo, 371. 

Buried Foets, by the Lancashire Witch : — 
No. I., Arthur Murphy, 521. 
No. 11., John Skeiton, 640. 

Biuke, Oliver J., History of the Chief 
Justices of Ireland, 481, 579. 

Garmendta's Fortune, A Hcture of Spanish 
Manners, 568. 

Caxton, WUllam, 545, 726. 

Chief Justices of Ireland, by 0. J. Burke, 
481, 579. 

Conceit, 843. 

Curtis, B. J., Shadow on the Wall, Fart IT., 

Death'and Immortality, 645. 
Decameron, Boccaccio's, Tales from, 526. 
Destiny of Humanity, by Lady Wilde, 627. 

Early Printers, William Caxton, Fart I., 
545, 726. 

Fashion in Fiction, 427. 

Folk Lore of the County Donegal, 241. 

Folk Lore of Ulster. 747. 

French Political Journalism, 289. 

Gerald Qriffin, 534. 

Gossip from Egypt, 507. 

Greek Art, Some Bemains of, 612. 

Holly and Ivy, By William DIgby Seymour, 
Q.C., 270. 

How our Folly was won, 741. 

In the Midnight, by Lady Wylde, 44. 
Itish Star Chamber, 222. 

Jesus, The Order of; 320. 
Joan of Arc, 417. 

KnlghtoD, W., Pompeii, 106 ; The Sporta- 

men of Ancient Greece and Italy, 231 ; 
From Briodisi to Cairo, 371 ; Gossip from 
Egypt, 507 ; The Treasnres of Egypt, 

Lays of the Sidntly : — 

No. XIII., St Jannarius, 25. 

No. XIY.. St. Catherine of Sienna, 355. 

No. XY., The Voyage of St. Brandon, 

No. XVL, St. Gregory the Great, 709. 

Leaves from My Note-Book, by an ex-Officer 
of the Royal Irish Constobulary, 621. 

Legend of Lough Beg, 555. 

LiTiBABT NoTioxs. — Gbotho : Ausgewahlte 
Froia. 147; The Poetical Works of 
Ebeneier Elliott, 148 ; A Visit to Ger- 
man Schools : Notes of a Professiooal 
Tour, with Discussions of the General 
Principles and Practice of Kindergarten 
and other schemes of Elementary Educa- 
tion, 153 ; Boman Catholicism, Old and 
New, from the Standpoint of the Infalli- 
bility Doctrine, 155 ; Boudoir Ballads, 
157 ; The Midland Railway : its Rise and 
Progress. A Narrative of Modem Enter- 
prise, 158 ; The Vatican and St. James's ; 
or, England independent of Rome. A 
Letter addressed to the Right Hon. B. 
Disraeli, M.P. — A Ramble with the Car- 
dinal: or, Flowers of History from 
Wendorer. Remarks on an Article by 
Cardinal Manning in the Contemporary 
Review, Decemb^, 1875, entitled The 
Pope and Migna Charta. — The Roman 
Pontift, Popes, or Bishops of Rome, and 
their Times. With notice of Contem- 
porary Events connected with English 
History, 158 ; The Home of Bethany : its 
Joys, its. Sorrows, and its Divine Guest, 
160 ; Charles Kingsley, his Letters and 
Memories of his Life, 271 ; Current Coin, 
276 ; The Huguenots, their Settlements, 
Churches, and Industries in England and 
Ireland, 279 ; LaurelUi, and other Poems, 

282; njn^. "TIJJU The Servant of Jeho- 
vah: a Commentary, Grammatical and 
Critical, upon Isaiah lit 13'-liiL 12, 
284 ; Annus Amoris, 286 ; Forty Years 
Since ; or, Italy and Rome : a Sketch, 
287 ; The History of the Struggle for 
Parliamentary Government in England, 
397 ; FridthjofsSaga: a Norse RomaxLCft> 



400 ; Outlines of an Indnstrial Science, 
403 ; The Kingdom of thn HeaTens, 406 ; 
The Large and Small Qame of Bengal 
and the North-Westem ProTuioet of India, 
408 ; Outlines of Lectures on the History of 
Philoeophj, 411 ; Rays from the Southern 
Gross, 412 ; OctaWus Brooks Frothingham 
and the New Faith, 418 ; An Alphabet in 
^nance. A Simple Statement of Per- 
manent Principles and their Application 
to Questions of the Day, 414; Qod'i 
Chosen Festival (A Ohristmas Song), and 
other Fbems, 414 ; Certainties of Chris- 
tianity. Four Lectures, 415 ; The Ven- 
detta, and other Poems, 416 ; Poems, 542 ; 
The Northern Question, or Russia's 
Policy in Turkey Unmasked, 544 ; The 
Constitutional and PoUtieal History of the 
United States, 650; Mythology among 
Uie Hebrews, and its Historical Develop- 
ment, 654 ; The Select Dramatic Works 
of John Dryden, 658 ; The whole Familiar 
Colloquies of Desiderius Erasmus of 
Rotterdam, 662 ; The Bampton Lectures, 
1876. The Witness of the Psalms to 
Christ and Christianity, 665 ; Philology, 
668 ; Legends and Poems, 671 ; The 
Political Economy of Indian Famines, 
787 ; History of Philosophy from Thales 
to the Present Time, 789 ; Ought Protes- 
tant Christians to Circulate Romish Ver- 
sions of the Wordof Qodf 794 ; Tranaerip- 
tions from Italian History and Romance, 
795 ; Hobo and Haba, and their Adven- 
tures Narrated and Illustrated, 796 ; Saint 
Christopher, with Psakn and Song, 796. 

London Hermit, Lays of the Saintly, 25, 
856, 471, 709. 

Maiden's Grie^ The, After SebiUer, 808. 

Martineau, D.D,, 484. 

Maiy Carroll, 766. 

McMabon, the Rev. John, on Mental 
Science, 265. 

Mental Soienee as a Branch of Liberal Cul- 
ture, 265. ' 

Milesian Invasion of Ireland, The, 678. 

Monsieur Joubert*s Thoughts, 250. 

Murphy, Rev. H. D., 449. 

Nannette, 683. 

Old AcquMutances, 832. 

*' Our Portrait Gallery " :— 

No. XXX VL, Professor Tyndall, 80. 

No. XXXVII., Dean Stanley, 174. 

No. XXXVIIL, The Ri^t Hon. Lyon 
Playfair, 804. 

No. XXXIX., The Rev. Dr. Martineau, 

No. XL., Professor Sir \miiam Thom- 
son, 560. 

No. XLI., Sir Charles WyviUe Thom- 
son, 696. 

Over a Glass of Grog, From the Russian of 
Alexandre Herzon, 865. 

Philip the Seeond, 1. 

Playfair, Right Hon. Lyon, 804. 

PoBTRT : — Lays of the Saintly, by the Lon- 
don Hermit, 25, 855. 471, 709 ; In the Mid- 
night, by Lady Wilde, 44 ; HoUy and Ivy, 
byWilliamDigby Seymour, Q.C.. 270; The 
Maiden's Grief, 808 ; Tendebatque Manu 
Ripae Ulterioris Amore, 449 ; Death and 
Immortality, 645 ; Episode from a New 
Translation of Tas80*s Gerusalemme 
Liberata, 754 ; On a Bridge, 786. 

Pompeii, by W. Knighton, 106. 

Prester, John, The Order of Jesus, 320 ; 
Terrorism in Ireland, 390 ; Gerald Griffin, 
534 ; The Corbeship of Clunys, 605 ; 
Shelley's Queen Mab and Prometheus 
Unbound, 773. 

Servia and the Slavs, Phrt IV., 140. 

Shadow on the Wall, Part II., 46, 186. 

Shelley's Queen Mab and Prometheus, Un- 
bound, 773. 

Spectacles and Weak Nerves, On, 780. 

Sportsmen of Ancient Greece and Italy, 281. 

Stanley, Dean, 174. 

Star Chamber, The Irish, 222. 

Storiss :— The Shadow on the Wall,, by EL 
J. Curtis, 46 and 186 ; Folk Lore of the 
County Donegal, 241 ; Old Acquaintances, 
882 ; Over a GUss of Grog, 865 ; Aunt 
Patty's Pattens, 885 ; The White House, 
450 ; Tales from Boccaccio's Decameron, 
526 ; The Legend of Lough Beg, 555 ; 
Carmencita*s Fortune, 568 ; Leaves from 
my Note Book, by an Ex-Officer of the 
Royal Irish Constabulary, 621 and 718 ; 
Nannette, 683; How our Polly was Won, 
741 ; Mary Carroll, 766. 

Studies in Scottish Literature : — 
No. VII., Robert Bums, 94. 
No. Vin., John Gait, 495. 

Tendebatque Manns Ripce Ulterioris Amore, 

Terrorism in Ireland, 890. ' 

Thomson, Professor Sir William, 560. 

Thomson, Sir Charles Wyville, 696. 

Treasures of Sgypt, 591. 

Tyndall, Professor, 80. 

Wallis, C. J., On French Political Journalism, 

Wanderings in Elysium, 117. 

White House, The, 450. 

Wilde Lady, In the Midnight, 44 ; The 
Destiny of Humanity, 627. 

Wyatt, Sir Thomas, 161. 


No. DXXIX.] 

JANUARY, 1877. 

[Vol. LXXXIX. 


annexed to the Crown the master- 
ship of the military fraternities of 
the Peninsula ; Charles the First of 
Spain and Fifth of Germany had 
become the protector of the knights 
of St. John, to whom he had given 
oyer the island of Malta. Philip 
the Second had inherited, from his 
father and great-grandfather, all 
these titles to concentrate withia 
his own hand the direction of those 
once powerful communities of 
fighting monks. He was the 
Catholic king by excellence, and he 
meant to become everywhere the 
Catholic king by excellence, in all 
the senses of the word. 

The InquisitioD, whose privileges 
were more extended than ever, was 
also more under his sway than 
under that of any of his predecessors. 
By the building of the JBscorial and 
his intense devotion, of the most 
monastic type, he had done all in 
his power to identify with the in- 
terests of the monks — ^the great 
leading force of the Peninsula — ^his 

crown, dynasty, policy, ambition 
and hopes in this world and in the 
next. Face to face with the ii^- 
habitant of the Vatican, the crowned 
servus servorum of the inquisitorial 
Church of Borne, was to be seen the 
inmate of the Escorial, the crowned 
servus servorum of the inquisitorial 
monastic Church of Spain. 

As far as we can judge, the son 
of the Jeronymite monk of Yuste 
was ready to support the old 
monastic and military orders of the 
medisBval Papacy; but the new 
monastic and military institutions, 
animated by the same or a similar 
spirit, were not in favour with him. 
When the Pope wanted to establish 
in Spain the military order of St. 
Lazarus, he objected to it in such 
terms that His Holiness, after 
taking into due consideration the 
strong and aggressive remonstrances 
of Don Luis de Bequesens, the 
Spanish ambassador at Borne, re- 
nounced his idea. 

The originators of similar schemes 
at home were no more successful. 



Philip the Second, 


In 1574 the Inquisition attempted 
to create, in the provinces of 
Castile, Leon, Biscay, Navarre, 
Aragon, Valencia, Catalonia, As- 
tnrias and Galicia, a new military 
order. As the holy militia, called 
into existence by Loyola to prop and 
extend the temporal and spiritual 
authority of the Boman pontiffn, 
had been put under the special 
patronage of Jesus, the leading 
members of the Holy Office con- 
sidered it most natural to put 
under the special patronage of the 
. mother of Jesus the holy militia, 
instituted with the pious idea of 
securing, extending, and rendering 
independent of popes and king^, 
the authority and immunities of the 
Spanish Inquisition. The new in- 
quisitorial order was to become the 
militia of the JEColy Mary of the 
White Sward, This was the 
appellation definitively fixed upon. 

Old Christian subjects of the 
Catholic monarchs, who should have 
proved, after scrupulous information 
and examination, free from all 
heretical, Jewish or Mahometan im- 
purity, in flesh and spirit, personally 
and hereditarily, had the ri^^ht to 
enlist in their ranks. The Grand 
Master of the new inquisitorial 
order of knighthood was to be the 
General Inquisitor himself, to whose 
authority must submit all the 
members, even in their civil and 
criminal affairs, independently of 
all law and royal jurisdiction. Ap- 
proved by the Holy Office, the 
rules and regulations had already 
succeeded in inducing many 
illustrious families to enrol under 
the flag of the Immaculate Mary 
of the Immaculate Sword. But 
they had reckoned without their 
host. They forgot that they lived 
under the blessed sway of the 
Monk-king, the most watchful and 
alert of all autocrats to oppose any 
scheme detrimental to the royal 
supremacy. When Philip the 
Second became acquainted with 

these machinations, thinking that 
the inquisitorial devotion of his 
predilect lieges to the Holy Virgin 
had led them astray, beyond the 
bounds traced by him and his 
ancestors to the members of the 
Holy Tribunal, he ordered to be 
seized all the papers and com- 
munications passed on the subject, 
and adopted the required measures 
to silence for ever the authors or 
originators, writing to all the 
ecclesiastical and law corporations 
to remain tranquil and without 
fear, since on him devolved the duty 
of preserving and defending against 
all comers the purity of the faith, 
in conformity with the functions 
conferred on him by the Almighty. 
And thus was crushed in the bud 
by the iron heel of the monk of the 
!^corial the brilliant conception of 
his Inquisitors, destined, perhaps, 
if realized, to obscure the hauts 
fait 8 of the militia raised and 
trained by St. Ignatius to mount 
guard at the doors of the living 
God of the Vatican. 

" This Monarch," says the modem 
Spanish historian, Don Modesto de 
Lafuente, *' who has lefl perpetually 
sculptured and portrayed his aus- 
tere and devout nature, and his 
monastic propensities, in the por- 
tentous monument of religion and 
art known as the Escorial; this 
sovereign for whom the most de- 
lightful mansion was the cell of a 
monk, was opposed to the increase 
of the regular monastic orders." 
More than for the creation of new 
orders, he was zealous for the re- 
duction of them to the old ones, 
about the reformation of which he 
was very busy. He used to say, 
and in this he gave proof of sound 
common sense, that it was to be 
feared these sort of institutions, as 
they were multiplying, would end 
by becoming more abundant than 
religious piety. And to the monks 
of the Peninsula, who attempted or 
planned against his political au- 


Philip the Second. 

thoritj, he was mercilees. Some of 
them were executed in the public 
squares of hia capital, and accord- 
iug to some historians, 2,000 priests 
and monks of Portugal perished by 
his orders. 

Many people point to these ideas, 
openly manifested by Philip the 
Second, as clashing with his well- 
known monastic bias. But we 
think that those persons who ex- 
press surprise at these apparent 
contradictions, have not been able 
well to appreciate the true charac- 
ter and tendencies of the Monk of 
the Escorial. His devotion like 
his religion, his patriotism like his 
monasticism, on the whole in con- 
formity with those of his country- 
men, were in many ways peculiar, 
and were allied to the despotical 
temper and instincts inherited from 
his lather. 

The monasticism he. wanted to 
see implanted and cultivated in his 
States, was to be in every sense 
adapted to his autocratic concep- 
tions on the subject. To give free 
range, in every direction, to the 
monastic mania of the times, was 
contrary to all his ideas on temporal 
and spiritual matters. In every 
sense Philip was the representative 
of order on earth. He had this in 
common with the most celebrated 
autocrats in modern and ancient 
time. The convent of the Escorial 
was the expression of his concep- 
tions and aspirations in monastic 
matters. According as the other 
labourers of monasticism, so to 
speak, attempted to approach this 
ideal, were tney more or less wel- 
come. All the monastic schools 
which deviated from it, especially 
those running into new channels, 
were most particularly distasteful 
to him. His love of power was one 
with his love of unity and order. 
A Monarchy, a Church, and a 
Monastery were, to all appearances, 
the supreme ideal of his theocratic 
aspirations, the holy trinity of his 

autocratic dreams. A Church, a 
Monarchy, and a Monastery, cover- 
ing the whole planet, inspired and 
ruled by the presiding genius of the 
Escorial, that was what he wanted 
for himself and his descendants. 

Moreover it was the policy of 
Philip, as well as that of his father, 
to lend a helping hand to those in- 
stitutions of b^-gone ages which, 
by their traditional spirit, were 
considered useful to further his 
plans, while to allow new ones to 
grow and multiply around them 
was indirectly to prepare or pre- 
cipitate their decay. 

The Inquisitorial gods had 
blessed the distribution of extra- 
European Kingdoms, decreed by 
Alexander the Sixth in the fulness of 
his pontifical jurisdiction. The Ibe- 
rian navigators, explorers, conquer- 
ors, and colonists had completed, so 
to speak, in its chief outlines, the 
geographical knowledge of the world , 
rectifying the wrong notions of the 
great Genoese and Portuguese navi- 
gators, who died with the idea that 
Asia was larger, and the earth 
smaller, than they really are. The 
two sister and rival nations border- 
ing the Tagus, advanced constantly 
in their discoveries, the Portuguese 
eastwards, the Spaniards westwards, 
in dutiful compliance with the de- 
cision of the Vicar of Christ on 
earth, until their seamen, sailing in 
opposite directions from Lisbon and 
Seville, met in the Moluccas. The 
most remarkable maritime feat of 
the 16th century, the first circum- 
navigation voyage around the globe, 
was accomplished by an expedition 
led by Castilian and Lusitauian 

Portugal was the initiator of the 
colonizing power of Europe in 
Africa, Asia, and Oceania; Spain 
in both Americas. The successful 
talents and career of Yasco de 
Gama, Cabral, Bartolome Diaz, 
the two Almeidas, Albuquerque, 
Castro, Ortaide, Duarte Pacheco, 



Philip the Second. 


Mascarenasi, the two Andrades, 
Bibejro, Mendez Pinto, and many 
other discoverers, soldiers and 
mariners, united to the successful 
talents and careers of Golombus, 
Balboa, Fizarro, Cort^a Alvarado, 
Orellana, Grijalva, &c., had been 
instrumental in putting the most 
boundless colonial empire under the 
rule of Philip the Second. The 
history of the two nations appeared 
completed, forming a perfect unity 
or whole. What a prodigious 
amount of genius, courage, exertion, 
perseverance, and good-luck was 
necessary to carry on with such un- 
expectea success the work mapped 
out for the two rival and energetic 
nations by the Pope, who traced 
out through the yet unexplored 
regions of the globe, the divisionaiy 
line from the arctic to the antarctic 

Spain and Portugal discovered 
the New World, found the direct 
communication by sea between the 
two great portions of the Old, pene- 
trated into Oceania, and revealed 
to the inhabitants of the globe all 
the extent of the planet. In the 
first half of the 16th centurv Spain 
and Portugal had navigated round 
the Cape Horn and the Cape of 
Good Hope, and had visited New 
Britain and New Guinea. In a 
certain sense, in its principal out- 
lines, they may be said to have com- 
pleted the geographical knowledge 
of mankind. The discoverers and 
•explorers, by sea and by land, in 
the last and present centuries, have 
improved and vulgarized this know- 
ledge in many important details; 
but they all have moved within the 
bounds of the seas and continents, 
mapped out, with more or less pre- 
cision and accuracy, by Portuguese 
and Spanish navigators. 

Spain and Portugal, more or less 
Jealously and consciously, advanced 
bv different ways to the same final 
aim. Had it not been for the In- 
fante Don Enrique, the navigator. 

the observatory and academy of 
Sagres, the exploration of the At- 
lantic, and the sea shore of Africa, 
and the invention of Martin Behaim, 
the first expedition of Columbus 
would never have taken place, 
and most likely the discovery 
of America would have been de- 
layed till Alvarez Cabral, in 1500, 
accidentally reached the coast of 
Brazil. But for the voyage of 
Magalhaens, and the brothers No- 
dales, to the Straits which bear the 
name of the former, and to Tierra 
del Fuego; but for those of Torres 
and Quiros to Oceania, the dis- 
coveries of the Portuguese in Asia 
would not have had their fulfilment. 
Philip the Second is, in my 
opinion, the monarch most to be 
excused for having indulged in day- 
dreams of universal autocracy. His 
fleets had humbled the most for- 
midable naval power of the epoch. 
His armies, reputed invincible, were 
commanded by the ablest and most 
experienced generals of the age. 
In the year 1581, in the 25 th year 
of his reign, and the 54th year of 
his life, Philip in the fulness of 
success and ripe manhood extended 
his undisputed sway over the whole 
of Old and New Spain,Peru, Brazils, 
and the island of Elba; perhaps 
the four most inexhaustible stores 
of diamonds, iron, silver, gold, and 
all sort of mineral wealth under 
the sun. Philip possessed already 
the most boundless empire in 
modem and ancient times. There 
were within its boundaries, ranges 
of mountains like the Andes, un- 
rivalled for their arch-titanic pro- 
portions ; streams originated in 
the snowy summits of the Cordil- 
leras, rolling along larger masses of 
water than all the other principal 
rivers on the surface of the globe 
put together, and the Amazon, the 
most sea-like of rivers, from its 
very source to the Atlantic, for a 
distance of 1000 leagues, pouring 
every twenty-four hours into the 


PhUip the Second. 

ocean 13,410 million cubical metres 
of water, flowed nninterruptedly 
through the lands of the Monk-king. 
On its borders, and on those of the 
other majestic streams of the New 
World and their a£9uentB, thick 
forests extended in every direction, 
inviting their masters to avail them- 
selves of the most valuable woods 
for all sorts of medicinal, mechanical, 
ornamental, domestic, and naval 

With such copious resources at 
his disposal, marshalling all sorts of 
instruments of power and oppres- 
sion, temporal as well as spiritual, 
who on earth should be able to 
thwart the plans of the mightiest 
champions of crusadiug monkhood, 
flushed with fresh and invigorating 
triumphs P Monarch, priests, and 
monks of the stamp, school and 
country of Alexander Borgia, Cis- 
neros, Loyola, Torquemada, Alba, 
Cortes, Pizarro, men who, when 
once decided on the path for good 
or for evil, followed it through thick 
and thin, by fair or foul means, not 
allowing themselves the least incon- 
sistency, the least deviation, until 
they sat at rest with their work 
completed. Who should be able to 
stop short their triumphant career, 
by sea and land, when Spanish 
monks, under the lead of the 
crowned Hannibal of monasticism, 
marching from victory to victory, 
across Alps and Andes, across 
rivers and oceai)s, cherished the 
hope of becoming the paramount 
lords of the creation, the para- 
mount lords of Church and State, 
from world's end to world's end? 

Who should be able to change 
the upward march of their ever- 
ascending rising star, closely ap- 
proaching the highest conceivable 
zenith of earthly supreme power, 
when they perceived within sight 
and easv reach of their newly-built, 
formidable, citadel-like convents, 
three, four, five continents, and in- 
numerable islands, to be stormed, 

proselytized, plundered, ground to 
the dust, and finally parcelled out, 
and parched up, into the appurte- 
nances of monkeries and nunneries, 
like the fields of La Mancha and the 
Castilles ? 

The dark side of this picture, 
even before the rising stars of 
William of Orange, the Prince of 
Beam, and the Queen of England 
reached their zenith, is to be found ' 
in the deplorable state of the 
Spanish finances. Dishonesty in 
his interior and foreign policy was 
the characteristic feature — it had 
become, so to speak, the hereditary 
idiosvncrasy of the worthy successor, 

Jupil, and son of the imperial 
eronymite monk; this characteristic ^ 
feature became, to a certain point 
more conspicuous and barefaced, 
at home and abroad, in his 
financial contrivances against friends 
and foes, laymen, priests, prelates 
and popes. 

In spite of the heavy taxes of his 
Spanish subjects, Charles the Fifth 
ended his reign, as he had begun it, 
by demanding extraordinary sub- 
sidies. To all the Cortes assembled 
by him, he constantly complained 
of his debts and wants, asking for 
more money. His soldiers, ill-paid, 
and ill-fed, when they did not 
support patiently and patriotically 
their privations, as was the case 
with the army of Pavia, were 
obliged to indulge in their marauding 
propensities, as was the case with 
the soldiers of Rome and Lombardy, 
or broke into open mutiny and re- 
bellion, as did the garrisons of Milan 
»nd the Goleta. 

The state of the Spanish finances 
was not prosperous when Philip 
took charge ot them, the revenues 
had been spent, the resources ex- 
hausted, and the nation burdened 
with enormous debts. At the be- 
ginning of his reign the national debt 
was thirty-five millions of ducats; 
when he died the debt amounted to 
one hundred millions, leaving mort- 



Philip the Second. 


gaged the taxes of some years on 
behalf of the creditors of the 

Philip spent largely daring his 
stay in England. From the be- 
ginning of his reign he authorized 
considerable expenses to pay his 
spies in foreign courts, and to bribe 
the princes and foremost subjects 
favourable to his plans. Until 1 583, 
• when the King of Sweden was recon- 
verted to the Lutheran faith, he sent 
himlargeamountsof money, with the 
hope of determining that monarch 
to partition Denmark with him. 
Enormous sums were sent to France 
at different periods to assist the 
party of the League. From 15S5 
he sent yearly to the Guises a 
million of crowns. 

The consignation for the expenses 
of the Queen amounted in 1562 to 
80,iXK) ducats ; that of the prince 
had increased from 32,0()0 to 
50,000 ; and at the same rate that 
of Don Juan of Austria. All the 
expenses of the royal house 
amounted in 1562 to 415,000 ducats, 
at a time, when the Magistrates of 
the two Chanceries of the Kingdom 
had the paltry salary of 400 ducats. 
The cost of the construction and 
interior decoration of the Escorial 
amounted to very near six millions 
of ducats. And, as Prescott rightly 
says, it would be a mistake to 
suppose that, when the building 
was finished, the labours of Philip 
were at an end. One might almost ' 
say they were but begun. The 
casket was completed, but the re- 
mainder of his days was to be passed 
in filling it with the rarest and 
richest gems. Philip omitted 
nothing which could give b value, 
real or imaginary, to his museum. 
He gathered at an* immense cost 
several hundred cases of the bones 
of saints and martyrs, depositing 
them in rich silver t*hrines, of 
elaborate workmanship. The prices 
which he paid enabled him to com- 
mand the sen-ices of the most 

eminent artists. Many anecdotes 
are told of his munificence. 

Philip began his career of re- 
forming financier, by ordering, in 
conformity with the wishes ex- 
pressed by the Council of Finances, 
a thousand patents of nobility 
{hidalguias) to be sold to persons 
of all classes, without paying any at- 
tention to their birth or families, 
whatever they might be, ofiering 
first for sale 150, at the price of 
5,000 ducats each, in order to 
render the sale easier, safer, and 
quicker, reserving the others to 
sell successively, so that a sudden 
over-stock should not depreciate 
the value. He ordered the sale of 
perpetual jurisdictions, by which 
the Council expected to get a good 
round sum; the sale of commons 
belonging to the towns and villages, 
excepting only the most indis- 
pensable for the respective places ; 
the increase of offices of aldermen, 
jurorS) and notaries in the principal 
localties ; the amount which in the 
two previous years had not been 
received from the cunrta de las 
iglesiaSt part of the masses which 
belong to the parish of which the 
deceased person was a member ; he 
also gave instructions for compulsory 
loans from the prelates and in- 
dividuals, to be paid back by means 
of annuities, assigned upon the 
revenues of the Crown, and so 
compulsory, that speaking of the 
bishop of Cordova, of whom they 
demanded 200,000 ducats, the King 
said, making him understand, that 
should he attempt to shun or exempt 
himself from those taxes, rigorous 
measures should be applied to get 
them in the best possible manner; 
to oblige the archbishop of Toledo 
to deliver the largest sum which he 
could ; from the archbishop of 
Seville 150,000 ducats; from the 
priors or presidents of the consulados 
of Seville and Burgos 70,000 ; from 
the archbishop of Saragossa 70,000; 
to sell the towns of Estepa and 


Philip the Second. 

Mosiemolin to the Counts of Urena 
and Fuebla — to cancel the alum 
agreement entered into with the 
Pope, and to sell to the mer- 
chants at the highest prices; to 
beg of the towns and villages the 
profits of the censuses during the 
last ten years ; to stop payment to 
the creditors who should be in- 
demnified by means of new 
assignations {comignacianes) with 
high interests; to work and im- 
prove the mines of Guadalcanal. 
Already the law had prohibited 
both laics and clergy, under puni Ai- 
ment of death and loss of their 
property, under punishment of the 
sequestration of their ecclesiastical 
and temporal revenues and banish- 
ment from the kingdom, from send- 
ing of money to Home, either in 
coins or schedules, under any pre- 
text whatever. 

The king, far from finding fault 
with these and other taxes, was 
eager to have them established and 
gather them without any delay or 
consideration; advising that those 
should be obliged to pay larger sums 
who were not willing to pay them. 
And among other items which he 
added to the proposed list of new 
taxes, one was to take possession 
of the half of the revenues of the 
Spanish church, granted to his fa- 
ther, for a certain time, by the Pope 
Julius tlie Third to meet the ex- 
penses of the war against the Ger- 
man Protestants. The bull of this con- 
cession had been afterwards annulled 
by the Pope ; but in a council of 
divines and canonists assembled by 
Philip, it was decided that the 
Pope could not annul the bull after 
it had been confirmed by the king- 
dom, and therefore, they declared 
that the king had the right of re- 
ceiving the said half of the eccle- 
siastical property. Philip adhered to 
their opinion, and acted accordingly. 

The greatest severity was em- 
ployed in the exactions of the loans, 
and commissioners were despatched 

to the provinces to compromise with 
the landowners^ nobles, and prelatea. 
Don Diego de Acebedo, sent in this 
capacity to Aragon, Valencia, and 
Catalonia, had orders to exact from 
the Archbishop of Saragossa, not 
only the 60,000 ducats recommended 
by the Council of Finances, but 
100,000, according to the wishes 
expressed by His Majesty. And, 
as he refused to pay more than 
20,000 ducats, and the rumour cir- 
culated of his intending to send 
his money to Navarre, order was 
immediately given to the Duke of 
Albuquerque to detain the bearer 
and to lay an embargo on it. Ail 
the other persons required to con- 
tribute in that extraordinary way 
to the support of the burdens of 
the State, excused themselves the 
best they could, and the largest 
number only gave the third or 
fourth part of the sum asked for. 
The Archbishop of Toledo offered 
50,000 ducats for six consecutive 
years, and moreover the surplusage 
of the silver and fabrics of the 
churches, stopping short all the 
commenced works ; this sum was 
estimated paltry, considering the 
enormous income of the metro- 
politan diocese, of which a scrupulous 
valuation was ordered. 

Not only did they resort to the 
expedient of legitimizing for money 
the children of the clergy, but 
granted them at a moderate price 
patents of nobility. That did not 
realize the calculated pecuniary re- 
sult, because they well knew how 
to obtain by other means, and at 
less cost, the same favour. *' Con- 
cerning the legitimations of the 
children of the clergy," wrote the 
Princess Gobernadora to her brother 
the king, " although such legitima- 
tion had been proposed and pub- 
lished generally, adding a patent of 
nobility, whether their fathers were 
or not noblemen, up to the present, 
none has bought them ; it is believed 
that there are not many among 


PAiUp the Second. 


them who hare the means of bnving 
them, and those who possess tnem, 
are not in want of other means and 
remedies to which thej resort ; thus, 
although they have l)een told they 
should be able to obtain them at 
moderate prices, and the chief per- 
sons of the locality have been charged 
with this commission in the Tillages 
and towns of the kingdom, to 
render the transactions easier and 
more convenient, there is little 
hope of any profit." 

According to Don Luis Cabrera, 
the faithful chronicler and servant 
of Philip the Second, and his son 
Philip the Third, and of all the 
contemporary writers the one who 
gives the clearest insight into the 
life of his countrymen at the time, 
^ In the diocese of Galahorra there 
were the prodigious number of 
18,000 clergymen, for the most part, 
wanting in respectability of any 

There were offered to the mercers 
and merchants, in payment of what 
was taken from them, the most 
enormous interests and annuities at 
the rate of 20,000 per 1,000 ; in 
spite of all those measures and the 
taxes, with which towns and in- 
dividuals of all classes were bur- 
dened, the results were very Tar 
from satisfactory, not covering the 
expenses incurred. 

And the galeanes arrived, as be- 
fore, with the gold of the Indies 
and in considerable quantities. Ac- 
cording to the data left by the chief 
auditor of the Council of the Indies, 
His Majesty received annunlly from 
those colonies more than 1,200,000 

All the Cortes assembled during 
the reign of Philip the Second, 
constantly declared one of the 
causes of the national impoverish- 
ment to be, the accumulation of 
landed property in the hands of the 
clergy, and they always advised that 
an end should be put, or restrictions 
placed, on the riguts of mortmain. 

To take possession of the silver 
and gold which came from the Indies 
for the merchants and private gen- 
tlemen ; to sell patents of nobUity, 
jurisdictions, and offices ; the euartas 
of the churches ; the commons, and 
the towns and villages of the Crown; 
to impose forced loans on prelates, 
magnates, and landowners, which 
were collected violently and incon- 
siderately ; to stop payment to the 
creditors, and even legitimize by 
money the children of the clergy — 
tl^^BO were the first economic 
depositions or acts proposed by the 
Council of Finances and approved 
by the monarch. As every year 
diminished the national income, at 
the same time that the expenses of 
the royal household and the warlike 
expenditure increased, the council 
and the king resorted to extra- 
ordinary taxes, to the sale of vassals^, 
to the apportionment of Indians, 
to loans at enormous and ruinous 
interest. Some sumptuary laws, 
some provisions restrictive of com- 
merce, ^on\e pragmaticas concerning 
dresses, was all that the Council of 
Finances could hit upon to improve 
the economic situation, and the 
procuradores or deputies, holding 
identical ideas on the subject^ 
thought to have done something by 
passing resolutions which prohibited 
the grandees and nobles from gilding 
their house furniture, wearing em- 
broidery and braids on their dresses, 
and putting on their tables more 
than four dishes and two desserts 
of fruit. 

As, at the same time, the wars 
and expensive expeditions went on 
as before, and the eagerness for 
conquering kingdoms or preserving 
those which, mr from producing 
anything, were so many drains 
direct and indirect of Spanish wealth 
continued, and the gold of America, 
together with the young agri- 
culturists were sent out of the 
kingdom to pay and feed the Spanish 
armies in Flanders, the Low Coun- 


I%ilip the Second. 


trieSy Trance and Italj, and as, on 
the other side, the administratiye 
dispositions enacted were so non- 
sensical, every year misery and 
poverty increased ; then it was de- 
cided not to recognize the titles 
and rights of the creditors of the 
State, to reduce arbitrarily their due 
interest under pretext of its being 
ruinous and exorbitant, to reform 
and modify their titles according to 
a fixed type of reduction, and to 
apply retroactive laws to all the 
agreements entered into 15 years 
before ; a sort of national bankruptcy 
which frightened and irritated the 
foreign lenders, and put an end to 
the financial credit of the Spanish 

No wonder that towards the mid- 
dle of his reign, Philip complained 
of the disorder in the finances, 
and was saddened with the idea 
of the future prepared for him, when 
attheageof forty-eight,he8aid, ^^que 
no veia un dia de que podria vivir el 
otroy And to the recommendations 
of the Cortes of not selliug more 
towns, villages, jurisdictions, patents 
of nobility, public offices, he an- 
swered with his urgent necessities ; 
and when he could not extort any 
more from the exhausted people, 
assembled again the clergy and gran- 
dees, and demanded, not as a person 
who askti or solicits a favour, but as 
a master, forced loans in gold or pro- 
ducts ; and when all was exhausted, 
entreated resources in foreign lands 
at any price and interest. 

Uselessly did the Cortes from 
the begiuDiug loudly object to these 
sales of towns, commons, and juris- 
dictions, and to the increase of 
public offices^ which demoralized 
and pauperized the country at the 
same time. The Cortes proposed 
the repression of luxury and the 
prohibition of exporting the gold 
and silver, in coin or in bar. 

The prohibition of the exports 
of gold and silver increased the 
workmen's salaries, and that na- 

turally increased the price of the 
products, which rendered dearer the 
most indispensable articles. The 
national opinion pronounced itself 
against the exports of manufactures, 
even to the colonies, and the Cortes 
passed on the subject the most 
strange resolutions. **We see,** 
said the Cortes of Yalladolid ia 
1548, " that the price of the cloths, 
silks, cordovans, and other articles 
of the manufactories of this king- 
dom, necessary to its inhabitants, is 
constantly increasing. We also 
know that the dearness comes from 
their exports to the Indies. . . • 
• . It is notorious and undeniable 
that there are to be found in 
America plenty of wools superior 
to the wools of Spain ; why then 
do not the Americans manufacture 

their cloth? Silk is 

to be found in many provinces of 
America ; why do they not manu- 
facture velvet and satin P Are there 
not in the New World sufficient 
hides for their own use or con- 
sumption, and even for that of this 

kingdom? We pray 

your Majesty to forbid the export 
of these articles to America." 

Hestrictions and trammels of all 
sorts hindered and obstructed the 
improvement of national and foreign 
commerce. The high import and 
export duties on almost all 
articles, those on sales, purchases, 
and exchanges in constant increase, 
those which burdened the mer- 
chandizes imported into Castillo by 
sea and by land, known by the name 
of the dieznvo de mar^ and many 
other harassing taxes, combined 
with other causes to extinguish the 
industries of the country. 

Throughout Spain the old feudal 
prejudice against the mechanical 
professions was stronger, perhaps, 
than anywhere else. The natural 
fondness of the Spaniards for a cer- 
tain finery and magnificence, and 
their indisposition to work, impelled 
them to exert themselves not to 


Philip the Second. 


remain in the humble class of 
artizang, manufacturers, or com- 
moners, and to sacrifice their 
pecuniary interests to acquire the 
patent of nobility, the sale of which, 
with its titles and privileges, was 
facilitated by the absurd and er- 
roneous system of selling them pub- 
licly, which found so much favour 
with Philip the Second. Also the 
circumstances and recollections of 
seeing, and having seen, the pro- 
fessions of artizans, manufacturers, 
and mercers, principally exercised 
by Jews, Moors and Arabs, moved 
the people, who boasted of their 
old uncontaminated Christianity, to 
look at them with unmerited con- 
tempt, and as disgraceful to them 
and their families. And then the 
Holy Tribunal was always inclined 
to look most suspiciously at all those 
who, anyhow, brought to their 
memory the Jews and Mahometans 
of the pre-inquisitorial era. 

The measures against the Moris- 
€06, the wars which they caused and 
their expatriation from the Anda- 
lusian countries, began also to de- 
prive the Exchequer of the taxes 
paid by those manufacturing, mer- 
cantile, and agricultural populations. 
The want of roads and intercourse 
paralyzed the interior traffic and 
commerce, and the depredations of 
Moors, English, and Dutch, rendered 
difficult, if not impossible the ex- 
terior ; while restrictive ordinances 
and exorbitant taxes aud duties, 
created and encouraged smuggling. 

In 15G7 the taxes of Castillo 
reached already to double the sum 
of what they were at the beginning 
of the reign of Philip, every year 
diminishing the wealth, aud the 
wealth-producing power of the 
country. In 1575, the king re- 
duced, by his own authority, to 4^ 
per cent., the rate of interest of 7^ 
at which he had contracted many 
loans after 1560. In 1589, he bur- 
dened the most indispensable arti- 
cles of life for a civilized community 

with duties which increased by 
1,100,000 ducats yearly, the reve- 
nues of the exchequer ; the follow- 
ing year he managed to obtain from 
the Grandees, the gratuitous gift 
ot three and a half millions. Never- 
theless, he forced his creditors to a 
new loan of eight millions, threat- 
ening them with a farther reduction. 
In 1598, the last year of his reign, 
he called at every door asking for 
gratuitous gifts. 

At Naples the king could in- 
crease the taxes ad libitum, by his 
own authority, without any check, 
so that, little by little, the subject! 
of his most important Italian king- 
dom found themselves reduced to 
the last extremity under burdens^ 
amounting to the quintuple of those 
paid in former years. There, as in 
the last period of the Roman Em- 
pire, the towns were declared an- 
swerable for the collection of taxes, 
one of which amounting to eight 
ducats, was claimed from all persons, 
even the most destitute. 'Sicily 
never consented to pay more than 
250,000 ducats yearly. The taxes 
of the [Milanese population were 
successively increased until they 
reached the sum of 1,200,000 scu£ 
per annum, applied to paying the 
troops garrisoning the country. 
The immense resources of Flanders 
andtheLow Countries wereabsorbed 
by the expenses incurred in com- 
bating the various revolts and in- 
surrections against the government 
of Madrid. From 15G9 to 1572, 
25,000,000 were sent from Spain, 
notwithstanding the forced loan of 
2,000,000 extorted by the threats 
of Alva. 

The widely extended dominions 
inherited from his father, had been 
marvellously magnified by Philip's 
captains and diplomatists. With 
more reason than any other monarch 
on earth, he could boast of the sun 
never setting within the borders of 
his vast empire. And to uphold 
everywhere the supremacy of the 


Philip the Second. 


Churcli of the monk, in his eyes, 
synonymous with the supremacy of 
the Spanish crown, was tne aim and 
end of his policy during the forty- 
three years of his reign. 

It was in 1580 that Spain reached 
the zenith of her glory. At that 
moment all had heen carefully pre- 
pared to take possession of Portugal. 
Philip^s plans were crowned with 
success, and Spanish sway extended, 
with the only exception of the Aran- 
canian territory, throughout the 
whole length and breadth of south- 
em and central American mainland. 
On the other side of the Pyrenees, 
the realization of the ambitious 
designs of bis Catbolic Majesty 
seemed to promise equal success. 
The extinction of the line of Yalois 
opened up cheering prospects to 
his inordinate love of power. He 
had put forward his claims as col- 
lateral heir to the throne of France, 
and Catherine of Medicis was there 
ready to back the pretensions of 
any enemy to the Bourbon family. 
The Pope, moreover, had thought 
proper to make a donation of Ire- 
land to Philip, and the Irish people 
were better disposed to abide this 
time by the Pontifical decision, 
than they had proved to be some 
centuries before, when another 
Roman Bishop invested an English 
Prince with the sovereignty of the 
western island. 

And this was not all. The enter- 
prising Portuguese had already 
found their way into the most im- 
portant places of the Asiatic and 
South-eastern African seaboards. 
The doors of those eastern islands 
and continents were of course open 
to the monarch who ruled supreme 
at Lisbon, and had thoroughly de- 
feated at Lepanto the most for- 
midable Asiatic warriors. Northern 
Africa, distant but a few miles from 
the Spanish shores, could be easily 
reached, and after the overwhelm- 
ing catastrophe inflicted on the 
Turks, it was not a difficult task to 

subdue their African dependencies 
and their natural allies, the neigh- 
bouring Mahommetan countries — 
those pestilent hotbeds of Mediter- 
ranean pirates. Besides, Spanish or 
Portuguese seamen had already 
taken notice of another new conti- 
nent — Terra Atuiralis incognita. 

The only war of his long reign 
which had not originated in the re- 
ligious intolerance of the king was 
that of Portugal, and the annexa- 
tion of that kingdom and its colo- 
nies formed the most important 
acquisitions of Philip. Don Sebas- 
tian died in the fields of Alcazar- 
quivir, in 1578. There perished 
the whole army with the flower of 
the Portuguese hidalgos, and the 
kingdom remained comparatively 
defenceless, without captains and 
soldiers, and the most illustrious 
representatives of the old nobility. 
An inquisitor, archbishop, cardinal, 
occupied the vacant throne. Not- 
withstanding his old age, and that 
according to the canons of his 
Church he was incapacitated from 
marrying, he sent to Kome for the 
dispensation required. The Pope 
would willingly have granted it in 
order to thwart the plans of the 
monk of the Escorial, if his am- 
bassador at the court of Bome had 
not most cleverly prevented it. 

The vast monarchy was composed 
of empires, kingdoms, dukedoms, 
earldoms, and lordships, so dissimi- 
lar in many respects, that of most 
of them it may be said that they 
only had in common the person of 
the king at the head of their ad- 
ministration. Diflerent by their 
history, interests, and laws ; possess- 
ing life and existence of their own ; 
far from constituting a common 
nationality, they were an aggregate 
of States bitterly jealous of each 
other, and inclined to deal in many 
ways more liberally with the neigh- 
bouring countries, than with those 
in their immediate neighbourhood 
under the sway of the Spanish 


Philip the Second. 


Boyereig^s. And this applied not 
odIj to the foreign dommioDS of 
their Catholic Majesties, but also, 
although in a lesser degree, to their 
Spanish States, which countries, 
with the exception of their religious 
dogma, disagreed in almost every 
other respect. Castille, Aragon, 
Navarre, dealt with each other 
commercially, as if they were ruled 
by different sovereigns. The Basque 
provinces, while ourdening with 
onerous duties the merchandises 
imported or exported to theCastilles, 
imported and exported duty-free, 
foreign and national products and 

A. jealous investigator of the 
customs and morals of the clergy in 
general, a diligent prier into the 
conduct and individual qualities of 
every ecclesiastic, Philip knew the 
instruction, capacity, and morality 
of all those able to pretend to pre- 
bends and dignities. And for this 
reason, and by his system of giving 
precedence in those elections to 
merit over birth, during his reign 
very virtuous and learned men ob- 
tained mitres and prelacies. With 
such policy, assisted by his pro- 
digious memory, when persons were 
proposed for the bishoprics, and 
other ecclesiastical dignities, he used 
to object to them, either on the 
ground of recent slips, with which 
he was perfectly acquainted, or old 
frailties of their youth, that all but 
he had already forgotten. He re- 
membered everything at the mo- 
ment, and his memory appears more 
extraordinary if we take into con- 
sideration that the clergy were most 
numerous, and their morals in 
general not very pure and edifying. 

He exercised not only with the 
clergy this sort of royal inquisitorial 
policy, he extenaed it to all classes 
and offices of the State, and had 
his spies in his own palace, as well 
as in foreign courts. This explains, 
to a certain point, the enormous 
amount of information Philip ac- 

quired, concerning the public and 
individual intrigues, and ambitiona 
of foreign and national courtiers, 
favourites, ministers, pretenders, 
statesmen and diplomatists. This 
explains, likewise, to a certain point, 
how so exceedingly cautious a mon- 
arch should have written down in 
his own handwriting, in the minutes 
and offices to his ministerp, views, 
designs, advices, hints, injunctions, 
which convey so mean and repulsive 
an idea of his character, and which 
at the time, no doubt, he thought 
would remain for ever unfathomed 
arcana, but which in afbertimea 
became known. 

The geographical and historic de- 
scription, together with the statis- 
tics of the wealth and population, 
which he ordered to be made of all 
the countries of Spain and the Indies, 
is a good proof of his organizing 
administrative genius, although no- 
thing of any value was done. The 
principal responsibility for which 
rests on his inept and indolent suc- 
cessors, who disregarded his plana 
or recommendations on the subject. 
Moved by this same spirit of order 
and regularity, he ordered to be 
kept and arranged in the fortress of 
Simancas, all the old writings which 
were disseminated throughout dif- 
ferent places of Castille, and which 
became the beginning and found&' 
tion of those wealthy national ar- 
chives which are there now pre- 
served, and have been copiously in- 
creased since that time. The idea 
which originated with Cisneros, was 
accepted and patronized by Charles 
the Fifth, and realized by his son. 

Philip was an indefatigable worker. 
Were it possible to put together all 
that he wrote with his own hand in 
letters, warrants, schedules, instruc- 
tions, decrees, minutes, remarks, 
monitions, additions, suppressions, 
corrections, marginal and interlineal 
notes, &c. &c., volumes could be 
filled. The communications of his 
teachers inform us of his improve- 


Philip the Second. 


mentsin the stadj of languages, and 
the authors of Latin poems used to 
consult him, and listened with re- 
spect to his opinion. He esteemed 
learned men, and was in correspon- 
dence with the lettered men of the 
time. Of his fondness for books he 
gave testimony by his commissions 
to Antonio de Gracian to buy the 
works of el Abulense (el Tostado), to 
Arias Montanus for the acquisition 
of Hebrew MSS. at Borne, and to 
other learned men ; and, above all, 
by the library which he began to 
form in the Escorial. According to 
Prescott, *' Philip had given a de- 
gree of attention to the study of 
the fine arts seldom found in per- 
sons of his condition. He was a 
connoisseur in painting, and, above 
all, in architecture, making a care- 
ful studv of its principles, and oc- 
casionally furnishing designs with 
his own hand. No prince of his 
time left behind him so many proofs 
of his taste and magnificence in 

His internal policy was admirably 
adapted to his suspicious, artful, 
and dissembling nature. Purposely 
allowing his counsellors a certain 
freedom to speak out their opinions, 
in order to know them better ; en- 
couraging with calculating affability 
those who transacted business with 
him ; listening without any sign of 
displeasure to the remonstrances 
addressed, with face rarely either 
cheerful or angry, almost always 
serene, and never out of temper, as 
a person who is always on his guard ; 
more courtier-like than his cour- 
tiers, as he was more minister-like 
than his ministers, it was difficult 
for his counsellors to know with 
certainty when they had succeeded 
in acquiring the favour or the dis- 
favour of their king ; their sentence 
of banishment, imprisonment, or 
death, came suddenly when they 
were least prepared for it. His 
system was to foment or maintain 
alive rivalry among them in order 

better to dominate them. Thus 
did he behave with the Duke of 
Alva, Cardinals Espinosa and Qui- 
roga, Don Juan de Austria, Buj 
Gomez, Marquis de los Yelez, and 
secretaries Santoyo, Yazques and 
Perez. Very rarely did he elevate 
his imagination to the level of his 
power and the magnitude of his 
ambition. Very rarely did he dis- 

§lay that energetic activity which 
emands a great conception, and 
assures success. Many enterprises 
miscarried through the slowness of 
the detailed instructions on inci- 
dents of little moment. He was as 
slow in coming to a resolution, as 
his father was quick to act. In the 
time required Dy Philip to answer 
or consider the advice of his coun- 
cil, Charles the Fifth conquered a 

Unlike his father, who wanted to 
be everywhere at the same time, 
Philip preferred the loss of a king- 
dom to incurring tho trouble of a 
long voyage. 

Charles the Fifth principally es- 
teemed military gentlemen ; his 
son, on the contrary, much indebted 
as he was to them, never showed 
the least sympathy towards them. 
Philip possessed the talent of ob- 
scuring, to a certain point, the 
statesmen whose advice he most 
frequently followed or consulted: 
they have remained up to the pre- 
sent comparatively obscure ; he 
knew how to appropriate their 
opinions, and produce or recommend 
them as his own conceptions. Per- 
haps this was the calculated result 
of the mysterious secrecy with 
which he surrounded all his affairs. 
He wanted to become the ubiqui- 
tous autocrat of his subjects, making 
them feel as far as possible, without 
declaring it verbally, as the French 
despot of the following century 
did, that he only was the Govern- 
ment, and all the Government. 
His policy was to obscure and hum- 
ble every one around him, atasxdxi^ 


PhUip the Second. 


up before the world in the more 
exalted, imposing and unriyalled 

Very seldom do we find in his 
heart a tender feeling. That gloomy 
reservedness, that cold indifference, 
that unalterable serenity of face ; 
without a smile in prosperous times, 
wifchout anger under misfortune, 
whicb neither the spectacle of pun- 
ishment altered, nor the prayers of 
the unfortunate moved, nor the 
moans of the victims changed, re- 
vealed a heart inaccessible to human 
pity and compassion. The secrecy 
with which he premeditated the 
general punishment and persecution 
of a whole country and race ; the 
perseverance with which he prose- 
cuted for years with the most pro- 
found dissemblance, and through 
the most tenebrous means, his 
schemes of national and personal 
revenge, and the insensible hardness 
with which he passed a fatal sen- 
tence against a stranger, a confidant, 
a brother, a son — discovered a soul 
with which we should not like to 
see any man endowed. As imper- 
turbably would he listen to the 
news of the victory of Lepanto, as 
to the news of the defeat of the 
" Invincible." 

Philip was more inclined to de- 
stroy and render useless, slowly, 
and by degrees, the very things 
which he feigned to respect, than to 
level at them violent and decisive 
blows. During his reign the Cortes 
met more than twelve times* and, in 
some of the periods, remained as- 
sembled for many years. He began 
by not complying with some of their 
petitions, answering others with 
those ambiguous words, so natural 
to his character, promising to con- 
sider them and decide afterwards 
what he should think convenient. 
SucccBsively his concessions de- 
creased. Afterwards the propositions 
which received from him a favour- 
able answer became very rare. 
Then he determined to let years 

elapse before answering them; and 
many times the new Cortes met 
without having received any answer 
to the recommendation of the 
former Cortes. After this he 
adopted the system of fatiguing 
them by keeping them assembled for 
long periods, although the members 
complained of the damage and 
detriment which that caused. 
Prom this he passed on to issue or- 
dinances and laws of his own au- 
thority, without taking the advice 
of the Cortes, even when they were 
sitting. When he saw that the re- 
presentatives of the nation begged 
of him most submissively that, at 
least, he would have the considera- 
tion or courtesy to consult their 
opinion, he could congratulate him- 
self on having reduced them to a 
perfect state of harmlessness, im- 
potency, and nullity, without noise 
or violence, having converted them, 
so to say, by extenuation, to a sort 
of caricature of national represen- 

In spite of the exertions of Charles 
and Philip to corrupt the integrity, 
purity, and independence of the 
procuradoreSjthej always denounced 
with courage the extralimitations 
of the royu authority, and con- 
stantly repeated to the king that he 
was transgressing all laws, when 
imposing and gathering taxes by 
his own power, without the assent 
and authorization of the assembled 
representatives of the nation. Philip 
excused himself, arguing the neces- 
sity of defending the Catholic 

Contemplating the best and surest 
manner of putting an untimely end 
to the Aragonese liberties, as un- 
willingly supported by him as those 
of Caatille, he took advantage of 
the riots and revolt of the citizens 
of Saragossa, caused by the well- 
known process against Antonio 
Perez. He did not let slip the 
opportunity, and acting ab irato 
first against the men, and then 


PhUip the Second. 


against the institations, he began bj 
sending to the scaffold the Justicia 
Mayor and the leader of the re- 
volted people, and afterwards put 
an end to the Aragonese fueros. 
Always hypocritical, the royal army 
was already entering Saragossa, and 
yet the king affirmed and asserted 
that he sent his soldiers there to 
restore the free enjoyment and 
working of the fueros. The son 
terminated at the Cortes of Tara- 
zona what the father began at the 
Cortes of Coruiia. All the informa- 
tion and proceedings against the 
most respectable of all magistrates, 
el Juaticia Mayor de Arayon, were 
these words, '* Prendtreis d Don 
Juan de Lanuza, y hareis luego cor 
tar la cd^c-^a."— " Take hold of 
Don Juan de Lanuza, and order 
bis head to be lopped off without 

Philip was the first to establish 
definitively, in a fixed point of the 
Peninsula, his court and the resi- 
dence of the Supreme Goyemment, 
renouncing, so to speak, the wan- 
dering life of his ancestors. His 
resolution met with many dis- 
advantages, and was, no doubt, 
during his reign and those of his 
descendants, one of the causes of 
the wars and insurrections in some 
of the provinces under his s\7ay on 
both sides of the Pyrenees. Most 
likely to the Catalan and Aragonese 
people, his having rendered an 
insignificant town of New Castillo 
the capital and official head-quarters 
of the vast political and adminis- 
trative machinery, proved as dis- 
tasteful as it would have been to 
the Low Countries and the Italian 

ITor this reason they began to 
watch more jealously what was 
going on in the councils of the king 
of Castile, and to examine and 
protect more carefully, and give 
more importance than before, to 
the fueros and special laws which 
prevailed among them. Up to the 

time of the Austrian dynasty those 
fueros had been instrumental in 
preserving and extending the liber* 
ties of the subject against the en- 
croachments of their own native 
princes ; henceforth they must also 
secure them against foreign domi- 
nation, for foreign they reputed^ 
if not exactly the king, at least his 
royal secretaries and counsellors^ 
and all the Castilian gentlemen in 
general. Then, not only did all 
these fueros or privileges begin to 
be exaggerated in every sense, and 
ostentatious works were published^ 
the design of which was manifest 
to the most short-sighted, but no 
one took the trouble to impugn 
them in the respective places where 
they became popular, because the 
old royalist or loyalist party in 
those countries dwindled to com* 
parative insignificance with the 
absence of the monarch. Those, 
or the descendants of those, who in 
former centuries had maintained the 
prerogatives of the crown against 
the excessive pretensions of nobles 
and commons, for the most part 
made common cause with the cham- 
pions of the old fueros, who were 
considered by the majority of their 
countrymen as the defenders of the 
national independence and tradi- 
tional customs against the hated 
preponderance of the Castilian 
lieges and their king in the local 
affairs of the commonalty. To put 
some order and rule into elements 
so contrary, and make them move 
regularly, without collisions and 
hitches of any kind, it was neces- 
sary to create a strong and lasting 
government, which should manage 
to conciliate, as far as possible, 
the peculiar organization of every 
kingdom with the general interests 
of the monarchy. How to attract 
to a common centre the principles 
of life and action, which agitated 
the Peninsula in opposite directions, 
was the problem which had occu- 
pied the attention of Ferdinand t\i^ 


Philip the Second. 


datholic, Cisneros, and Charles the 
Fifth, before the reign of Philip the 
Second. All of them acted on the 
principle that to succeed in their 
attempts it was indispensable to in- 
crease in every direction the royal 
power, rendering it stronger than 
It had ever been before in those 
countries. In this they appear to 
have been in accordance with the 
ideas prevailing throughout Europe. 
All the kings of the time attempted 
to organize, more or less sucessfully, 
the monarchical system according to 
the same plan. None of them ap- 
pears to luEive been over scrupulous 
about the means employed. Bv 
the establishment of the Inquisi- 
tion, the permanent militia, the 
almost general creation of corregi' 
doreij the expulsion of the nobility 
of the Castilian Cortes, the an- 
nexions to the Crown of the grand 
masterships of the powerful and 
troublesome military orders of 
Alcantara, Calatrava, and St. James, 
and other less noticeable changes, 
the predecessors of Philip had paved 
the way to the final realization 
of his ambitious and despotic 
schemes. The lawyers, most in- 
fluential in the council of the 
Crown since the reign of Fer- 
dinand and Isabella, favoured 
also the royal preferences or 
tendencies in that direction. The 
study of the Boman law, then 
very general, their own personal 
interests or ambitious as a class, 
and the disturbances and dis- 
sensions of the feudal era, then 
of recent date, induced them to 
increase the prerogatives of the 
head of the State. 

Convinced of the serious draw- 
backs of the former regime, and of 
the necessity for creating another 
better adapted to the new order of 
things, the Catholic kings began 
this work after tlio union of the 
crowns of Castile and Aragon. 
Charles the Fifth and his son com- 
pleted this organization, giving it 

fixity, solidity, and stability. The 
Councils (Consejoi) of thedffierent 
kingdoms established at the coart, 
became the principal wheels of the 
governmental machinery ; they were 
generally composed of persons well 
acquainted with the peculiar laws 
and customs of those kingdoms, 
either because they were bom 
there, a condition veir commonly 
required, or through having filled 
there important places. At the 
head of each Council was the King, 
in his capacity of ruler of the par- 
ticular country with the interests 
of which the Council was charged. 
The affairs were administered in 
conformity with the fueros of those 
countries, and the execution of their 
resolutions devolved on the ordinary 
functionaries. In the councils of 
Castile, Aragon, Portugal, Flanders, 
Italy and the Indies, the affairs 
were attentively examined, and 
their resolutions made known to the 
Sovereign in the form of eoneulta 
or advice. A large number of 
Secretaries, among whom was di- 
vided the expediting of the affairs, 
but without any more authority 
than that which their name indi- 
cated, communicated to the prince 
these consultas. Sometimes, never- 
theless, the king, assisted by his 
secretaries, decided what was to be 
done without the intervention of the 
Councils, sending his resolutions 
directly to the viceroys and other 
highest representatives of the 
monarch within the different coun- 
tries under his sway ; this happened 
seldom at the beginning, but it be- 
came very common in aftertimes, 
although it always appears to have 
been blamed and viewed with dis- 

The general interests of the 
monarchy demanded cares common 
to all the parts which composed it. 
They originated another sort of 
Councils very different in their 
functions and aims. They were not 
charged with the government of any 


Philip the Second. 


particular kiDgdom, but with the 
management oi any special branch 
of the administration throughout 
the monarchy, being to a certain 
point the reverse side of the others. 
If the former personified the old 
peculiar government of each sepa- 
rate kingdom, the latter announced 
the future general regime of the 
monarchy ; the former struggled to 
maintain the spirit of locality or 
provincialism, tne latter advanced 
on every favourable conjuncture the 
work of national centralization. 
The new councils were, no doubt, 
an institution destined to gather 
life, strength, and importance at the 
expense of the old ones, being ready 
to suppress and supplant them at 
the great epoch of the fusion of all 
the interests in the interest of the 
common nationality. To this class 
belonged the Council of State and 
those of War, Finance, and others 
less important. These councils de- 
liberated on the affairs in their 
respective competence, examining 
them from the side of the higher 
interests of the whole monarchy, 
and easily and gradually encroached 
on many things which oelonged be- 
fore their creation to the councils 
of the particular kingdoms. The 
whole machinery was in need of a 
common centre, whence it should 
receive at once movement and 
regularity. Charles the Fifth and 
his son supplied with their personal 
labour the want of this centre, and 
the position of those monarch s was 
of the highest from this single cir- 
cumstance, but also very difficult 
and laborious. It suited their 
views of real and ubiquitous auto- 
cracy, but not those of their suc- 
cessors, who were satisfied with 
reigning, allowing their favourites 
to rule and misrule their vast do- 

Fond of order and regularity in 
everything, Philip distributed more 
conveniently the affairs of the 
Councils and secretaryships, so that 

their expedition should be free from 
the obstructions and confusion, 
which had prevailed in no small 
degree up to his time. 

Above all those Councils, and 
superior in everything but the 
wisdom of their resolutions, to all 
of them, was the Supreme Council 
of the Inquisition, charged with the 
administration and supervision of 
the religious interests. A tribunal 
more political than religious, even 
in those times, when religious affairs 
were the most serious and momentous 
in the national and foreign policy -, 
it constantly served the temporal 
aspirations of the kings, and be- 
came, in their hands, the surest 
instrument of furthering their 
ambitious plans. The Inquisition 
was, indeed, an admirable tool of 
centralization and power in those* 
times, and possessed a logical com- 
pleteness,a force and unity of which 
all contemporary institutions wer& 
deprived. Its authority extended 
throughout Spain; at the head of 
it was the Supreme Council, which 
resided at the court, and which di- 
rected the subaltern tribunals and 
inquisitions, disseminated through- 
out the various kingdoms with 
general and uniform rules, and 
above all, perfectly independent of 
the fueros and particular laws of 
each kingdom. The Judges were 
appointed by the Kings, without 
being tram melled in their preferences-- 
by any of the restrictions whichr 
they found in the appointments of 
other public functionaries in some 
of their dominions. In that way 
it happened that the Inquisition of' 
Saragossa, unlike the other tribunals- 
of Aragon in the most insignificant; 
localities, was under the immediate- 
authority of a superior Council, 
which sat and deliberated at Madrid » 
its judges were the only ones with- 
in the kingdom who were not 
Aragonese, or, at least, at the will of 
the King could be appointed of any 
other country; their appointment 


Philip the Second. 


was the work of the Crown, and 
against their proceedings, wrapped 
in secrecy, the rights of asylum and 
refuge» which the fueros of the 
country secured in other cases to 
the natives and inhabitants, were of 
no avail. Concerning the Inquisition 
as in everything else, Philip had 
not created anything, his was not a 
creative genius ; he had simply im- 
proved and completed the work of 
his ancestors, animated by the same 
spirit and ambition. He had only 
increased the authority of the Holy 
0£5ce still more than his pre- 
decessors, exalting it more and more 
above the other tribunals, and ex- 
tending and magnifying at their 
expense its jurisdiction and at- 
tributes; but the more heenhancedit, 
the more careful he was of keeping 
it under his immediate personal con- 
trol. Nothing really important 
took place in that institution with- 
out the assent of the Sovereign, 
who in his dealings with the Holy 
Tribunal usually put aside his most 
confidential secretaries, almost al- 
ways answering in his own hand- 
writing the cansultas of the Supreme 
Council of the Inquisition. 

The kings of Spain soon per- 
ceived how great an instrument of 
influence and authority the In- 
quisition was. From this con- 
sideration they constantly disre- 
garded the most justifiable appeals 
and remonstrances of their subjects, 
and they decided to make that 
powerful and dreaded tribunal still 
more powerful and dreaded. At 
Home, on the contrary, the injured 
people very often found shelter and 
protection, in spite of the exertions 
of their Spanish majesties and their 
agents in the capital of Boman 
Catholicism. At the Pontifical 
court, far from feeling inclined to 
defend the exaggerations and ex- 
treme measures of the Holy Office, 
it was most distasteful to the Curia 
to observe the independent spirit 
in ecclesiastical matters osten- 

tatiously displayed, from the very 
beginning, by Spanish Inquisitors. 
If the Popes could have behaved 
with entire liberty in the first years 
of the institution, when they saw 
Torquemada and his adepts at work, 
its existence would have been 
shortlived. But the kings of Spain, 
just then more powerful than ever, 
and of whose friendship and assis- 
tance the Roman Pontiffs were much 
in need, were ready to protect and 
defend the detested institution 
against all comers. Their incessant 
and continued exertions proved 
most successful, and the Inquisition, 
every year more and more inde- 
pendent of Bome, was more and 
more subjected to the power of the 
Sovereigns, who availed themselves 
of it most unscrupulously in their 

Gloomy and untractable by tem- 
per, intolerant by religion, by edu- 
cation, and by nature suspicious, 
inquisitive, 'and vindictive, Philip 
the Second would have become the 
most accomplished of general in- 
quisitors of the most ferocious and 
relentless type, had he not been 
seated on the throne. He could 
not fail to attract the entire confi- 
dence of the Holy Office, and encou- 
rage them by new privileges. The 
inquisitors well knew that he re- 
garded as delightful spectacles, the 
autos-du-fe against the heretics. 
For that reason, in order to humour 
him, when he came back to Valla- 
dolid, his native town, in 1559, they 
prepared one against the Luther- 
ans, and solemnized his return 
with the bonfires, at which the 
King assisted with great pleasure. 
It was then that he pronounced 
those well known words : — ** I would, 
myself, carry wood to hum my own 
son were he such a wretch as you.^' 

In all the other most memorable 
festivities of his reign, to celebrate 
the arrival at the Spanish capital or 
principal cities of the foreign royal 
brides, the Inquisitors never neg- 


PhUip the Second. 


lected the opporfcanity of giving zest 
to the public amuBements by an 
auio-da-fi. The inquisitorial cruel- 
ties and procedure perfectly agreed 
with Philip's religious ideas, and 
his dissembling and tenebrous 
policy. When he was only prince 
and goyemor of the kingdom, he 
had already shown his tendencies 
in that direction, by restoring to 
the Holy Office powers, the exercise 
of which had been suspended by his 
father ; and afterwards, when he be- 
came king, he confirmed them by 
different decrees, and more ostensi- 
bly than his predecessors he con- 
verted the Inquisition into his right 
arm in spiritual, secular, and most 
personal affairs. When by means 
of the civil law of the kingdom ho 
could not reach his kingly revenge, 
he resorted to the Inquisition, from 
the snares and nets of which it was 
not an easy thing for an accused 
party to escape. He was pleased 
with the repetition and increase of 
the autoS'da-Je in Toledo, Murcia, 
Valencia, Saragossa, Seville, and 
Granada; be saw with pleasure how 
the Inquisition chained the human 
thought, how it persecuted men 
prominent by their science and doc- 
trine, how it prohibited books re- 
markable for their philosophy and 
erudition, and how it condemned, 
and put into prison their authors, 
on the pretended charge of teaching 
dangerous opinions. 

The Holy Office, always jealous, 
severe, and suspicious of all the 
works which, directly or indirectly, 
dealt with religious subjects, be- 
came still more so when the prin- 
ciples of the Eeformation began to 
be propagated throughout Europe, 
and to struggle with the old creed. 
The watchfulness of the Inquisitor 
increased, and, impelled by the de- 
sire of putting down Protestantism, 
and hindering the dissemination of 
the heretical poison beyond the 
Pyrenees — not satisfied with the 
prohibition of the Lutheran books 

and writings, nor with the con- 
demnation of those contained in 
the indices, nor with seizing and 
anathematizing all the books in 
which they discovered or suspected 
any maxim contrary to the Koman 
Church — ^under the royal patronage 
his censures gradually reached all 
published works, and finally, no- 
thing could be printed without the 
previous approbation of the Inqui- 

Nor did they respect even those 
subjects of their Catholic Majesties, 
who had the highest reputation for 
virtue, talent, and holiness, such as 
the venerable Juan de Avila, the 
learned Fray Luis Granada, Fray 
Luis de Leon, Sta. Theresa and St. 
Juan de la Cruz. Everybody feared, 
knowing that his works were to be 
examined by judges so severe and 
searching. And not only were 
works dealing with divinity, reli- 
gion, and morals, subjected to such 
investigation, but the inquisitorial 
supervision extended to all writings, 
even to those explaining the agri- 
cultural and nautical art, as well as 
those intended only to amuse their 
rer.ders. As it is almost impossi- 
ble, taking into consideration the 
general affinities and relations of 
the different branches of human 
knowledge, not to mention or 
utter anyhow laws, or facts, pre- 
mises or conclusions, more or less 
remotely connected with religious 
ideas and traditions, authors were 
constantly in danger of excit- 
ing the suspicions, whims, or ira- 
scible touchiness in ecclesiastical 
matters of the crochety or rancorous 
censor. And that was enough to 
expose him to become the innocent 
victim of iniquitous and mysterious 
proceedings, against which no one 
around him was daring or strong 
enough to protest in his favour. 

Philip provoked by his measures 
the rebellion of the Moriscoes, and 
when he had put down the insur- 
rection, he dealt out the same mea- 


Philip the Second. 


sare to guilty and innocent. To 
efltablish religious unity in the 
kingdom of Granada, his only 
means was to depopulate it, and the 
best manner of converting a race 
of doubtful believers into good 
Christians was to destroy them. 
Instigated by the Cardinal Eapinosa, 
he issued in 1567 an ordinance 
commanding them, under the most 
severe punishment, to renounce 
their most sacred and ancient cus- 
toms, and even their language, for 
which, within the term of three 
yeras, they were to substitute the 
Castilian language. In this deter- 
mination against the Moriscoes, as 
in some of the most execrable and 
senseless resolutions of his reign, 
he followed the bad example of his 

Eredecessors, Ximenez de Cisneros, 
is father, and his father's grand- 
father, only Philip, as was usually 
the case with him, pushed matters 
a degree further. Even the Duke 
of Alva himself disapproved of that 
autocratic excess of bis royal mas- 

He issued from his cell iu the 
Escorial royal ordinances, not only 
against the insurrectionists, but 
also against the peaceful inhabitants 
who had remained loyal and obe- 
dient, *' that all tiie inhabitants of 
the Alcazaba and the Albaicin, from 
ten to sixty years of age, should be 
sent violently away out of their 
houses, and disseminated through- 
out the interior of the kingdom ; 
their children of minor age to be 
delivered to Christians to be brought 
up in the faith. That all the 
peaceful Moors " (that is to say, all 
that remained obedient) *' should 
be sent away from the kingdom of 
Granada and distributed through- 
out Castile ; that all the Moriscoes, 
without distinction, should be 
locked up in the churches and then 
transported by gangs of 1,500, es- 
corted by parties of soldiers to the 
designated districts." 
Those unfortunate people were 

assembled like herds of cattle, de- 
prived of their property, torn from 
their hearths, and they died after- 
wards in the roads of hunger, 
fatigue, grief, and ill-treatment. 
Few decrees were more iniquitous,, 
tyrannical, and cruel. 

Although he had not inspired 
many sympathies, the people of 
Planders willingly assisted Philip 
the Second to terminate the war 
with France in 1558, voting five 
millions of florins for that year, 
and no alarming signs of insurrec* 
tion were noticed until he created 
fourteen new bishoprics, renewed 
the terrible imperial edicts against 
the heretics, attempted to establish 
there an Inquisition worse than that 
of Spain, and to interfere most 
outrageously with the privileges 
and freedom of the country. The 
Spanish troops remained there 
longer than it had been agreed ; 
too much influence was allowed to 
Granvelle in the council and govern- 
ment ; the King showed himself 
ready for all sorts of extremities to 
oblige them to accept and obey, as 
laws of the State, the decrees of 
the Tridentine Fathers. 

The victor of St. Quentin and 
Gravelines, the two most signal 
battles won by.« Spanish armies 
during the reign of Philip against 
the traditional enemies of his an- 
cestors, the Dukes of Burgundy, 
the Kings of Aragon, and the 
German Emperors, came to Madrid 
and obtained a favourable answer 
of the King ; but at the same time 
that Egmont reached those countries, 
came orders from his Catholic Ma- 
jesty to punish the heretics witli 
more severity than before. This 
treacherous behaviour of the 
monarch irritated as much as the 
inquisitorial cruelties ; many young 
noblemen entered into the Pact of 
Breda, confederating themselves 
under oath to oppose with arms iu 
their hands the Holy Office and its 
edicts. Then he condescends to a 


Philip the Second. 


general pardoD, but protesting se- 
cretly before a notary that he did 
not act or proceed freely and spon- 
taneously. He wrote to his am- 
bassador at Itome, that far from 
being inclined to realize the 
promised pardon, he \ras ready to 
ruin and destroy those States, and 
all the others under his rule, and to 
lose one hundred lives, if he had 
them, rather than assent to reign 
over heretics. Had he proposed to 
himself to irritate the Flemish, as 
he had done the MoriscoeSyl to 
push them to rebellion and exter- 
minate them afterwards ? asks the 
modem writer of the general history 
of Spain, Don Modesto Lafuente. 
The council of divines on the sub- 
ject assembled by him, declared 
that, considering the situation of 
those provinces, he could well, with- 
out the least offence to God, allow 
them freedom of conscience, before 
originating the evils which a re- 
bellion might bring on the universal 
Church. And he never went there, 
although the Princess Begent, the 
nobles of the land, his counsellors 
of Spain, the same Cardinal Gran- 
¥elle, even the Pope, prayed him to 
go there. To all these requests he 
objected on the ground of penury, 
fever, or urgent Dusiness. Was it 
that he made it a case of conscience 
to exterminate all those who did 
not profess the Boman religion, and 
not tolerate any other cult in his 
States? asks again the modem 
Spanish historian above named. 

He then sends the Duke of Alva 
to pacify those provinces. Beallv, 
Philip could not have found through- 
out all the length and breadth of his 
vast domains, a nobleman more 
favourably circumstanced for the 
designed task. The most illustrioua 
ducal servant of Emperor, Pope 
and King,'sailed from Cartagena, the 
twenty-seventh of April, 1667. He 
landed on the friendly Genoese 
coast the seventeenth of the next 
month. There he took the command 

of the expeditionary corps, com- 
posed of first-rate soldiers, mag- 
nificently arrayed in the most 
gorgeous martial attire of the 
epoch. Pius the Fifth pointed 
Geneva to the fanatical warriors of 
the Spanish monarch. That nest of 
Calvinism was spared. The orders 
received by their leader, the con- 
genial tool of Philip, were to the 
effect of immediately proceeding to 
the Low Countries, where the old 
tottering faith was in need of their 

The Mouravieff of Boman Catholic 
autocracy reached his destination, 
the Council of Blood was estab- 
lished at Brussels. Margaret de- 
parted from the Low Countries. 
Wholesale emigration, wholesale 
confiscation, wholesale hangings and 
decapitations followed the Begent's 
departure. The faithful subject 
after the heart of Philip and Pius 
the Fifth, was busy at work. The 
victor of St. Quentin and Grave- 
lines perished on the scaffold. But 
the most barbarous tortures inflicted 
on the defenceless victims, had not 
the power to silence, even when at 
the stake, the courageous martyrs 
for freedom of conscience. 

Alva imposed on the country 
the onerous duties of the hundredth, 
the twentieth, and the tenth on all 
the sales of movable and immovable 
property. The exaction of the 
twentieth and tenth forced the mer- 
chants and mechanics to close their 
shops and workshops. The duke 
immediately ordered some of them 
to be hanged at the doors of their 
shops. But the most barbarous ex- 
tortions inflicted on the defenceless 
tax-payers had not the power to re- 
plenish the dilapidated royal exche- 
quer. The houses of the Protestant 
nobles were levelled to the ground, 
the prisons were filled with' victims, 
no one considered himself safe. 
" On Ash Wednesday, about 500 

have been put into prison I 

ordered them all to oe executed. . • 


Philip the SeconcL 


. • • After Easter I calculate that 
more than 800 heads will be lopped 
off." These are the cheering notes 
of the Duke to the King ! 

The tribunal of blood was at 
work without repose, and still the 
Banguinary governor was dissatisfied 
with the slowness of the proceedings, 
and he was indignant when he 
thought that no one in thoae 
countries became willingly instru- 
mental in such cruelties. All the 
circumstances which can render an 
act of ferocious tyranny abominable, 
all that can excite the interest of a 
nation on behalf of illustrious vic- 
tims, was combined in the imprison- 
ment, sentence, and public execution 
of the Counts Egmont and Horn. 
And at the same time that the Duke 
of Alva was sending by hundreds 
to the scaffold Protestants and 
Boman Catholics, the patricians 
and plebeians of the land delivered 
to his tender mercies, Philip put 
into prison his own son on suspicion 
of being in communication with 
the heretics, took possession of the 
son of the Prince of Orange, and 
dictated secretly to the executioner 
the best manner and way of 
strangulating the brother of the 
Count Horn. Philip gave the 
minutest details of instructions, 
explaining how to put an end, in 
the silence of night, to the life 
of the Baron de Montigny, in 
order that his death should appear 

Fortune smiled on the Duke of 
Alva from every quarter of the 
Catholic world during the first 
years of his vice-royalty. He orders 
the erection of a brazen statue to 
himself in the castle of Antwerp. 
A blessed hat and sword, orna- 
mented with gold and jewels, an 
jbonour, up to that epoch conferred 
only on sovereigns, was sent to him 
by the Dominican Inquisitor, who 
sat in the chair of St. Peter, al- 
ways ready to encourage and reward 
the Itomanizing zeal of the slayers 

of heretics l^y wholesale. It was 
at the camp of Mons that the news 
of the massacres of St. Bartholo* 
mew reached Alva and his crusad<- 
ers, who w^comed it with joyous 
shouting and illuminations. The 
same effect was produced at Mad- 
rid, where, acoording to the cost* 
munications sent by the French 
ambassador, never had Philip in 
his li& shown so much cheerfid«- 
ness. " II 80 prit a rire, et avecquss 
dimonstrations d'un extreme plamr 
et contentement il commen^a a louer 
Sa Majeate du titre de tres-ChreUen." 

Alva left the theatre of his era* 
sadiug misdeeds in 1573, boasting of 
liaving punished with death by the 
•hand of the executioner, during six 
years, some 18,000 rebels and here* 
tics. So far so good, thought 
Philip ; 8,000 deaths of rebels and 
heretics by the hand of the execu- 
tioner every year gave a high idea 
of his devotion to the royal and 
pontifical cause; but in spite of 
that extenuating circumstance, it 
could not be denied that Alva*s 
crusade had proved a most signal 
failure in every respect ; it had not 
pacified the country ; it had not 
thoroughly extirpated heresy ; it 
had not produced any money to the 
exchequer of the King, which grew 
every year more burdened with 
debts. The crowned Jeronymite 
had been cruelly disappointed in all 
his policy, financial and monkish* 
No wonder if the star of his most 
trusted and exalted Castiiian liege 
began to decline at court. 

Everybody at Madrid considered 
the situation of those countries 
hopeless; the Emperor Maximilian 
thought that (1575) the proper 
moment to offer his mediation, but 
Philip did not feel disposed to make 
the least concession concerning 
freedom of conscience. The follow- 
ing year (1576) the Spanish sol-^ 
diers, exasperated with the con- 
stantly delayed promise of pay, 
began to plunder the provinces^ 


Philip the Second. ^ 


those which had remained ftiithful 
as well as the others. 

Defender of the Catholic unity, 
and protector of the pontifical an* 
thoritj against the arms and doc- 
trines of the heretics and infidels, 
Philip had no scruples in taking 
possession of one half of the incomes 
of the Church, and he was inexora- 
ble with the Popes whenever and 
wherever they hurt his monarchical 
susceptibilities. On all these occa- 
sions he was always admirably and 
fearlessly seconded by his ministers, 
generals, and ambassadors. The 
Duke of Alva, in a letter which 
he addressed in 1556 to Paul lY., 
spoke out freely the ideas of his 
master and countrymen on the sub- 
ject. We read among other things 
in the letter: — " .... And 
why do not the answers of your 
Holiness justify and excuse what 
has happened ? I did not think it 
necessary to send another reply, the 
less so after your Holiness had 
acted in such a way as evidently 
shows not only that no trust can be 
put in your words, which is con- 
sidered infamous in the meanest 
and lowest of men.'* As the Popes 
insisted on the admission into Spain 
of the bull of the Supper (ccena 
Domini) y which their Catholic 
Majesties always objected to, Philip 
wrote to the Marquis of Las Navas 
to make his Holiness understand 
that the laic prince is not bound to 
obey the Pope in temporal matters. 
This bull, first issued by Boniface 
VIII., or, at least, attributed to 
him, and in the following genera- 
tions corrected, augmented, and 
improved by his successors in the 
Chair of St. Peter, excommuni- 
cated those who appeal from the 
pontifical decrees to the general 
council ; the princes who are dis- 
posed to limit the ecclesiastical 
jurisdiction, those who violate the 
immunities of the clergy, those 
who burden the nations with new 
taxes, Ac. After the exploits above 

related of the Monk of the Esconal, 
concerning his peculiar ways and 
means of getting the money out of 
the pockets of his subjects, lay or 
ecclesiastical, and after his manner 
of interfering with the jurisdiction, 
wealth, and immunities of the 
Church and the prelates, this Coma 
Bulla had not the least chance of 
being allowed admission into the 
domains of his Catholic Majesty. 

The inflexibility of the King in 
not allowing the circulation of the 
pontifical bulls, in 1566, at Naples, 
Sicily, and Milan, without the 
Regium exeqitatur, showed Pius V. 
that he would never be able to ob- 
tain from Philip II. any conces- 
sion on questions of jurisdiction. 

To the reclamation of a Pope 
who invoked the revocation of a 
bull, was opposed the opinion of an 
assembly of Spanish divines and 
canonists, who thought their Sove- 
reign perfectly authorized to make 
use of the bull granted by the Pope 
in former times. According to the 
official communications sent to 
Philip by his representatives at the 
court of Sextus V., his Holiness 
was a liar, a covetous and revenge- 
ful vicar of Christ on earth. The 
relations of the ambassadors from 
his Catholic Majesty with the head 
of the Catholic world, were so fiur 
from friendly, that the death of the 
tiaraed Franciscan inquisitor was 
imputed to poison, administered by 
the loyal subjects of the crowned 
Jeronvmite monk of tho Escorial. 
The Spanish representatives ad- 
dressed the most threatening lan- 
guage to his successor, Clement 
VIII., to induce him to oppose the 
conversion of the King of France 
to the Boman religion. 

After all this, we must not be 
surprised if the Spanish ultra- 
montanes, who, many years ago, 
used to talk in glowing terms of 
Philip the Second, the stern and 
uncompromising defender of the 
unity of faith in his States, have 


PhiUp the Second. 


changed their mind. In some of 
the last Cortes, the most prominent 
of their representatives spoke of 
him in the most opprobrious terms. 
An indefatigable promoter of the 
decisions of the Church against 
heresy, the new meeting of the 
Tridentine Council was principall/ 
due to him. But when the Pope 
and his legates attempted to intro- 
duce into the resolutions of that 
assembly a spirit "contrary to the 
plans contemplated by his Spanish 
Majesty, he objected to it in un- 
measured terms; his angry an- 
.swers, replies, and protests, as 
^well as those of his ambassadors 
>Ayala and Vargas, were not exactly 
^deferential, either to the wishes or 
persons of the Head of the Church 
^and bis Curia ; and the Boman 
Pontiff was finally forced to com- 
^ply, in all the principal points de- 
bated, with the desires of the Monk 
of the Escorial, and the council 
was not a new indietioriy as the 
Pope wanted it to be, but a mere 
. continuation f as the King proposed 
from the beginning and constantly 
insisted upon. The eoniuUa of 
. Jhe Council of State in 1560 ex- 

hibits the firmness of the Spaniards 
of the period. They said to the 
King, speaking against the evils and 
misuse of the excessive privileges 
of the Nuncio, that '' the natives 
of those kingdoms remaining in 
their sins with void dispensations, 
in exchange for which they take 
his money without measure or mo- 
deration;" and further on they in- 
sist still more forcibly on the same 
point, •* because," they say, " cer- 
tainly one of the most scandalous 
things in Christendom is this way 
of dispensing and expediting by 
money in ecdesiasticid affairs." 
They did not object to the sending 
of a Nuncio by the Pope, but in 
what regards the powers conferred 
on the Nuncios, they were of opinion 
" that the said powers ought to be 
given to prelates bom in these king- 
doms, and not to foreigners." The 
Liberal ministers of Kin^ Alfonso 
in the second half of the nineteenth 
century, could do worse than fol- 
low the advice of the counsellors of 
Philip the Second when dealing 
with troublesome Legates. 


1877.] Lay» of the SainUy. 26 

Bt THE London H£bhit. 

Author of " Sohos o» Sihoularitt," "Peips at Lifk," &c. 

No. 13. — St. Januabius. 

Of relics and of holy charms, and snch celestial treasures, 
The Papal Church has ever had a goodly store to hoast, 

To priestly domination, of all soul-enslaving measures. 
The traffic in such trinkets has contributed the most. 

The " one original True Cross/* as many Christians thought it, 

Was cut, and chipped, and pared away to nothing, one would think ; 

A piece was carried off by every devotee that sought it. 
And yet from primal shape and size it never seemed to shrink. 

Just so no monster gender'd in the mighty brain of Dante, 

Had half as many bones and heads as Saints, 'twould seem, possessed ; 

And tho' of their identity the evidence was scanty, 
In wearing such, believers thought themselves supremely blessed. 

Yet how could any Saint have had two sets of human members? 

And how could more than one True Cross as genuine be shown ? 
Has any single year contained a couple of Decembers ? 

Of tongues alone 'tis possible a multitude to own. 

Besides, it's hard that Saints deceased, however much respected, 
Are scatter'd in this fashion and not decently entomb'd, 

Tho' calendar'd in memory, they're seldom re-coUected, 
But to a second martyrdom posthumously are doom'd. 

Fair Italy in martyrs' blood's particularly wealthy. 
She keeps a bottle full in every monast'ry and church. 

Which melts at prayer until it looks like fluid live and healthy. 
A miracle that well rewards the pious pilgrim's search. 

26 Lays of the Saintly. [Jan. 

Saints Ursnla, Bartholomew, St Vitas and St. Lawrence, 
St. Eustace, John the Baptist, and some half a hundred more. 

Have left their hlood in Naples, Borne, and Sicily, and Florence, 
To liquify when holy men come thither to adore. 

But 'mid the sacred relics for their virtues highly rated, 

St. Januarius's hlood is famous far and near. 
In May and in September is hisfeita celebrated, 

And once again repeated at the closing of the year. 

Sweet Naples ! " City of the Waves," as Mrs. Hemans named thee, 
Oh, would I could do justice to thy beaufy in my song, 

And prove thee " Queen of Summer Seas,'* as poets have proclaimed thee. 
But that would make the present lay inordinately long. 

The subject of my melody's exclusively religious, 

I hope my treatment of it will be reverent to match ; 
For one who ventures on a theme so sacred and prodigious, 

Should do his very best a strain devotional to catch. 

Obliging Muse, come, gift me with an eloquence ecstatic, 

To praise St. Januarius for all that he has done, 
(" Gennaro," his familiar name, sounds rather operatic. 

Suggesting dread *' Lucrezia " and her vocalizing son.) 

Would'st learn the Saint's biography ? — 'tis little that is told of him, 

He preach'd at Benevento in the later Koman times. 
When Diocletian's persecuting myrmidons got hold of him, 

Regarding his religion as the dreadfuUest of crimes. 

Of all the Christian prelates the position was precarious, 
When purple-mantled Anti-Christ the tyrant sceptre sway'd. 

And thus it came to happen that the bishop Januarius 
To Pagan wrath and cruelty a sacrifice was made. 

'Tis said it was Timotheus who, suffering from blindness. 
Was by our Saint restored to sight, yet doom'd him to his fate^ 

An instance that, as oft we find, to do a man a kindness. 
Is purchasing, not gratitude, but injury and hate. 

The Saint was to the lions cast, to meet the fate of Daniel, 
With two companions, innocent of aught but holy zeal. 

When lo ! each great earnivorus fawn'd on him like a spanjol, 
And lick'd his feet, declining to begin his horrid meal. 

The lookers on attributed this miracle to magic. 
And charged St. J. with sorcery, whose punishment was death. 

Determined that his exit should in any case be tragic, 
By amputation of his head they robb'd Mm of his breath. 

1W7.] Lays of the Saintly. 27 

'Tis strange, as IVe remork'd befinre, that martyirs brought to daughter, 

Whatever other forms of fate they manage to escape, 
Tho' passing safe thro* boiling oil/ and flames, and drowning water. 

Expire at once'when death assumes decapitation's shape. 

Tradition says, a Roman dame, his loss devoutly rueing. 

Sponged up the precious drops of blood, and put them in a phial ; . 

A bit of straw by chance fell in the bottle, while so doing, 
That straw*8 still there ! — a fact enough to silence all denial. 

The Saint's remains have often, since the day he went to heaven. 
Been moved from grave to grave until at last they were transferr'd 

To Naples' grand basilica, in fourtoen-ninety-seven. 
And there with pomp and circumstance most solemnly interr*d. 

The splendid tomb and chapel £)rm a suitable memorial, > 

Domenichino, Spagnoletto, were employed to paint 

The scenes that deck the walls, and give a history pictorial 
Of all the deeds and labours of the wonder-working Saint 

It is behind the altar that the relics are deposited, 
And guarded safely with a double-duplicate of keys. 

Till on the days of festival they're carefully uncloseted. 
The pious Neapolitans to edify and please. 

The head of " San Cennaro,'* now as hard and brown as leather. 
Is placed upon the altar, near the sacrificial blood ; 

The marvel is that when these holy relics meet together, 
The vital stream will flow anew, tho' dried as thick as mud. 

But first the guardians of the shrine, by fervency in praying, 
Must warm their zeal to melting pitch, to gain the needful power. 

But when the blood will liquify exactly, there's no saying. 
It mostly takes ten minutes or a quarter of an hour. 

A bust of Naples' patron, lai^e, and hoUow'd out, and burnished. 
Contains his fossil cranium, as it stands upon the shrine ; 

With priestly robes magnificent his shoulders then are furnish'd. 
And when the candles are alight the sight is very fine. 

The blood is kept in bottles, one is small and reddish yellow. 
But here and there upon the glass some sanguine specks have dried ; 

The other phial's larger and more greyish than its feUow, 
And holds some half a pint or so of martyr'd blood inside. 

The blood when first reveal'd to view is very dark and cloggy. 
The case is like a carriage lamp, with hoops of silver barr'dy 

The sur£Euce of the glassy sides is so opaque and foggy. 
To see through the deception (if it he one) most be hard. 

28 Lays of the Saintly. [Jan. 

Tis sweet to mark the fidthfal in the grand cathedral gather, 
To help the Baints and clergy for their sins to intercede, 

But if the blood*s long melting, the officiating father 
Will try the soft persuasion of the Athanasian creed. 

That " fixes it,*' as Yankees say, as we should say, uit-fixes ; 

The clotted gore is floidized, and mingles in a stream : 
They lift the Boman candles up — the longest of " long sixes '* 

To cast upon the marvel their illaminating gleam. 

Then when the process is complete, the keeper or *' Thesaurer,*' 
Like nursemaid with a baby, hands the precious burden round 

To be caressed and fondly kiss'd by each devout adorer, 
With joyous tears, as one who has a priceless treasure found. 

It certainly must be a scene religiously inspiring 

To see the pious multitude with pleasure so elate. 
To hear the organ pealing, and the city guns a-firing, 

(But that was discontinued, it appears, in '68). 

On special days the relics through the city streets are carried, 

A clerical procession as magnificent and bright 
As Monarch's when he's crown'd, or princely couples' when they're married, 

A *' cynosure " all ** neigh'bring eyes " to fasten and delight. 

When melts the blood a kerchiefs waved, and birds are set a-flying. 

The priest upon the altar scatters petals of the rose. 
And thus with praying, playing, paying (very often, crying). 

And marching round, the ceremony draws towards a close. 

No doubt 'tis most imposing, but suggestive, to my fancy, 

(I hope that such comparison to no one seems a sin) 
Of those ornate, bewildering displays of necromancy, 

By conjurors like Hermann, Frikell, Maskelyne and Lynn. 

Oh, for the eye of childish fedth, whose seeing is believing ! 

That fSaith which Education's spread is banishing from earth. 
Preventing lord or commoner such miracles receiving 

As did in Jacobitish times the pious Earl of Perth. 

The/«f to when he witness'd it took place in January, 
Mid hundreds of the &ithfullest of worshippers he knelt ; 

He saw the liquefaction in the sacred reUquary, 
And doubted not the Hand Divine had caused the blood to melt. 

'Twas only after many hours of penitential kneeling 

On cold, hard stones, the devotees beheld, with tears of bliss, 

The blessed saint's death-frozen stream to fluid uncongealing : 
The Scottish lord the bottle hugg'd with oft-repeated kiss. 


1877.1 Lays of the Saintly. 29 

Ah me ! thifl nineteenth centaiy of scepticism and science , 
More cold and hard than any stones impress'd by pilgrim's knees » 

Has taaght that men, by bringing Nature's laws to dae appliance, 
Objective miracles like this can imitate with ease. 

*Tis hard to have to question such a sacred ** Institution." 
But Truth will stand, however close a scrutiny be made, 

Applying to the mystery a chemical solution 
We find there is no need at all for superhuman aid. 

Thrice happy he whose calm belief declines the task of struggling 
With pros and cons, objections, doubts, all difficult to meet. 

Suspecting holy ministrants of B3rstematic jug<;ling, 
And joining in a pious fraud the ignorant to cheat ! 

When once such possibilities have won from us admission, 
We find our doubts increasing while our faith is gro.ving s nall> 

Until their culmination is the terrible suspicion 
That Jannarius's '* blood " may not be blood at all. 

And after all cui bono f asks the soulless and prosaic ; 

What benefit's the miracle, supposing it is true ? 
Forbear, my gentle reader, whether clerical or laic, 

To judge the creed of others from a narrow-minded view. 

It keeps alive the ancient faith which Italy, possessing. 
Is far more favour'd than ourselves, the godless tho* the free, 

A faith that thro* the centuries has ever proved a blessing, 
(If this you doubt, peruse the Papal history and see). 

Besides, when dread Vesuvius shows ugly signs of grumbling. 

The citizens implore their saint the peril to avert ; 
And then, instead of lava-streams upon their houses tumbling. 
The fierce volcano stills its wrath, nor does the slightest hurt. 

For fourteen centuries or more the blood has now existed. 
For nearly half a thousand years its virtues have been proved ; 

How many Roman converts in that time it has enlisted ! 
How many souls from heresy to orthodoxy moved ! 

Then hail to Janusirius, and may his feast tri-annual 

(Altho* they say it's scarcely so successful as of yore) 
In spite of Garibaldi and Vittorio Emmanuel', 

In fame and might miraculous grow yearly more and more ; 

Teetotallers alone may well avoid it, since it teaches 

Devotion to the hottle, BJidi it wouldn't do a bit 
For apoplectic subjects, for they know that spite of leeches. 

When once the blood gets to the headf they're sure t<i have a fit. 

80 Our PoHrait OaUery. [Jan. 




A MABEED feature of the present time is the importance- attached to 
Science, both as a source of national prosperity and a means of mental 
cultivation. Together with art it constitutes a distinct Government 
department. Within the last few years several expeditions for scientific 
purposes have been undertaken by Government. The annual Parlia- 
mentary grant to the Eoyal Society for special scientific investigation 
has been increased from £1,000 to £5,000. 

The Commissioners of the Great Exhibition of 1851 have resolved to 
devote part of the funds at their disposal to the erection of buildings and 
the foundation of scholarships for the study of science. A Eoyal Com- 
mission has had the whole subject of scientific education under its 
consideration. Valuable prizes in the shape of fellowships and exhibi- 
tions, are offered at the ancient Universities, and by private munificence, 
with a view to encourage the cultivation of science,[and new colleges and 
professorships have been created in various parts of the country for the 
purpose of canying it on. The course of education at the public schools 
has been altered so as to include science among its essential parts. Lec- 
tures, classes, and examinations have also been instituted for the scientific 
instruction of the middle and lower classes. In short, it may safely be 
said, that never before did science enjoy so large a share of general con- 
sideration in this country. 

Probably no one has contributed more to this important result than 
Professor Tyndall. In his admirable lectures and writings science is set 
forth in so clear and attractive a light as to render it highly esteemed by 
all persons of average intelligence and education. With convincing 
power he insists, whenever he can get an opportunity, on the value of 
scientific study as a discipline of the mind, and in his own person affords 
a most striking confirmation of his statements. Thus both his teaching 
and example have combined to make science better known and more 


1877.3 Our Portrait OaUery. 31 

highlj yalued, to awaken a general interest in its researches, and to 
extend the application of its methods and the cultivation of its spirit. 

There is good evidence for assuming that Professor Tyndall may claim 
kinship with William Tyndall, the well-known martyr, who was humt to 
death, in 1536, for his zeal in translating the Bihle. Family tradition 
and documents cited by Mr. Green6eld show that, about two centuries 
ago, some members of the family, who were engaged in cloth manufacture, 
crossed over from the Tales of Gloucestershire, where a few clothiers' 
mills may still be seen, to the county of Wexford in Ireland. Parti- 
cular mention is made of a William Tyndall, who removed thither in the 
year 1670. Along the eastern coast of Ireland, in Wexford, Waterford, 
Oarlow, and Dublin, are scattered a few descendants of these men, some 
in easy circumstances and honourable position, others less favoured by 

William Tyndall, the grandfather of Professor Tyndall, possessed a 
small landed property in Wexford, from which county he removed to 
Oarlow, taking up his abode in the little town — or rather village — of 
Leighlin Bridge, on the banks of the river Barrow, where he added to 
his means by acting as agent to William Steuart, Esq., of Steuart*s Lodge. 

His eldest son was John Tyndall, who married very young and had 
five children, three of whom died in infancy, the remaining two being 
Professor Tyndall, and his sister now residing with the widow of Dr. 
John Tyndall, in Gorey, county Wexford. 

William TyndalFs small landed property would have naturally descended 
to his eldest son, and from him to the Professor. But both William 
Tyndall and his son John were men of warm temper and unbending will, 
and a difference of opinion on some point not now known, was so aggra- 
vated by these peculiarities of temper and character, that the father on 
his deathbed revoked his former will, and left the property to two sons of 
a second marriage. 

The Professor's father was still young when the Irish Constabulary 
force was first established, and as his worldly prospects were anything 
but bright, he joined it, and was attached to it for several years. 

It has been mentioned that he had a quick temper, but it is right to 
add that this, throughout his life, did not prevent his gaining the respect 
and confidence of all who were acquainted with him. He was a man of 
singular ability and rare integrity. An ardent politician, he was an 
Orangeman, and a member of the Brunswick Club. He had in his 
possession a fragment of a flag which fluttered at the battle of the 
Boyne. By imreserved intercourse he inspired his son with the same 
sentiments as he entertained on political and other subjects. He used 
often to talk to him about Newton — 

*' That sun of Science, whose meridian ray 
Kindled the gloom of Nature into day." 

32 Our Portrait Gallery. [Jan. 

In the last edition of the ** Fragments of Science,** we find the following 
referenoe at p. 555 : — 

" Bom in Ireland, I, like my predecessors for many generations, was 
taught to hold my own against the Church of Borne. I had a father 
whose memory ought to be to me a stay, and an example of unbending 
rectitude and purity of life. The small stock to which he belonged, were 
scattered with various fortunes along that £astem rim of Leinster, from 
Wexford upwards, to which they crossed from the Bristol Channel. My 
father was the poorest of them. Socially low, but mentally and morally 
high and independent, by his own inner energies and affinities he 
obtained a knowledge of history which would put mine to shame ; while 
the whole of the controversy between Protestantism and Romanism was 
at his fingers* ends. 

"At the present moment the works and characters which occupied him, 
come as far-off recollections to my mind. Claude and Bossuet, Chilling- 
worth and Nott, Tillotson, Jeremy Taylor, Challoner, and Milner, Pope 
and McGuire, and others whom I have forgotten, or whom it is needless 
to name. Still this man, so charged with the ammunition of controversy, 
was so respected by his Catholic fellow-townsmen, that one and all 
put up their shutters when he died.** 

Professor Tyndall is now 56 years of age. He was bom Leighlin 
Bridge, of which only a fragment now remains. His father s chief anxiety 
was to secure for him the best possible education. Hence he was 
careful to send him to as good a school as he could command, and 
he kept him at school till he was nineteen years old. Unfortunately, the 
best schools open to him were exceedingly defective. The boy, too, in 
his earlier school days, was far fonder of play than of work, so that he 
learnt very little. He, however, acquu*ed some physical accomplishments 
which have since stood him in good stead in his Alpine and other tours. 
He became a swift runner, a fair boxer, an expert swimmer, an adept at 
climbing, and successful at hockey. 

For his first really scientific knowledge. Professor Tyndall is indebted 
to Mr. John Conwill, formerly an able teacher in one of the Irish National 
Schools. With him were studied the rudiments of algebra, the elements 
of plane and solid geometry, trigonometry, and conic sections. Bishop 
Elrington's edition of Euclid was Tyndall*s first school book on this 
subject. To this succeeded the treatises of Lardner and Wallace, which 
were both completely mastered. The first work in arithmetic which 
was put into his hands, was a treatise by Professor Thomson, the father 
of the present celebrated Sir William Thomson. 

With Mr. Conwill, young Tyndall became an expert at solving 
problems, the solutions often being worked out upon the snow during the 
winters of 1837 and 1838, while returning with his teacher from school. 

1877.] Our Portrait Gallery. 33 

The chief characteristic of his mind in those days, was its power of 
visualising the relations of space. He could mentally draw the lines 
necessary for the solution of complex problems in plane geometry, and 
could reason upon his mental image as if it had been a diagram drawn 
on paper. This power of mental presentation enabled him when reading 
solid geometry to dispense with the models required by all the other 
members of the class. How important a part it has played throughout 
the whole of Professor Tyndall's career is strikingly obvious to even a 
cursory reader of his popular lectures, but can be fully understood only 
by those who are qualified to estimate the value of his various contribu- 
tions to science. 

In April, 1839, Tyndall left school to join a division of the Ordnance 
Survey of Ireland, then under the command of Lieutenant George 
Wynne (one of the Wynnes of Hazlewood) of the Royal Engineers. 
General Wjmne is now one of Professor Tyndall's oldest and most 
intimate friends. To this sagacious and high-minded gentleman the 
subject of our memoir is indebted for many acts of kindness which had a 
direct bearing on his career. One instance of thoughtful generosity 
deserves special mention. In 1850, when Tyndall came over from Ger- 
many to England, on a temporary visit, his friend, General Wynne, 
naturally supposing his exchequer was low, offered to place his purse at 
the disposal of his former assistant. The generous offer, so honourable 
to both parties, was not accepted, because not needed ; but it has left an 
impression upon the Professors mind that never has been or can be 

Another instance of this kind connected with a friendship which has 
probably struck its roots more deeply than any other into Tyndall's life, 
may be noted here. When a youth of scarcely sixteen, Professor Hirst, 
the present Director of Studies at the Royal Naval College, Greenwich, 
entered as an articled pupil the office in which Tyndall was then engaged. 
Separated in age by an interval of nearly ten years, they nevertheless 
became very intimate, both teacher and pupil finding a common intel- 
lectual pasture in the writings of Carlyle. After Tyndall's severance from 
the railway world, his young friend visited him at Marburg, in 1849. The 
death of Hirst*s nearest relative called him home, at the same time making 
him the possessor of a small patrimony. This he set his heart on 
dividing into halves, one of which he pressed on the acceptance of his 
friend, and he was sorely disappointed to find that friend inflexible in his 
adherence to his vow of poverty. To some extent, however, the youth 
had his way ; for one morning, while Tyndall was at work in his garret 
upon the Ketzerbach in Marburg, the postman brought him a closely- 
packed, heavily-sealed roll, which, on being opened, was found to contain 
coins, swept from every kingdom and principality in Germany, louis d'ors, 
thalers, gulden , silber-groschen, kreuzer, and pfennige. In this way, 

84 Our Portrait Gallery. [Jan. 

throagh a German banker, did the joung man contrive to throw £20 
into his friend's exchequer. Abandoning the profession chosen for him, 
when his articles were completed, Mr. Hirst accompanied Tjndall on his 
return to Marburg in 1850. Here Hirst studied for a considerable time, 
and afterwards completed his mathematical education in Berlin, Paris, 
and Rome. For thirtj years, without a moment's solution of continuity, 
a friendship deeper than brotherhood has united these two men. 

To return to 1839. Tyndall joined the Ordnance Survey in the capa- 
city of draughtsman, and after having acquired considerable proficiency in 
laying down maps and lines of triangulation to scale, he was permitted to 
master the details of field-work. This accomplished, he was allowed to 
take part in the surveying and mapping of a large and intricate town. 

His acquaintance with trigonometrical observation began in this way : 
a dearth of observers occurring when some observations were needed, he 
ofifered his services, and after some hesitation on account of his want of 
experience in such work, was entrusted with a theodolite. Taking the 
instrument into an open field, he studied its parts, mastered their uses, and 
made the observations, which, on being compared with the results of the 
triangulation, previously made on a larger scale, were found to be correct 
He also mastered all the details necessary for the calculation of heights 
and areas, both from the measurements of the field-book and from scale 
and paper. In short, when he quitted the Survey, in 1843, he was prac- 
tically acquainted with all its processes. 

Nearly five years of Professor Tyndall's life were devoted to work of 
the character sketched above. In 1844, his prospects in this country 
being the reverse of brilliant, he resolved to go to America, and a portion 
of his outfit was actually purchased at the time. The project was op- 
posed by some of his most intimate friends, and the sudden outburst of 
activity in the construction of railways, together with their remonstrances, 
detained him in this country. 

Bemoving to Halifax, he lived in the midst of the stormy contests 
between the West Biding Union and West Riding Junction Railways. 
The stress at this time upon both brain and muscle was very great. It 
is, perhaps, worth remarking, that Sir John Hawkshaw, Professor 
Tyndall's successor in the presidential chair of the British Association, 
was then engineer-in-chief of the Manchester and Leeds Railway, and as 
such was considered a kind of potentate by young aspirants in Tyndall's 
position. In Sir John Hawkshaw's office, at Manchester, a few of the 
later days of Tyndall's railway labours were spent. 

But the fierce energy of the time could not last long. Railway enter- 
prise soon became curtailed in its proportions, and the prospects of 
young engineers suffered accordingly. Self-improvement was the 
main object of Tyndall's life, and with a view to this he accepted in 
1847 the offer' of an appointment as teacher at Queen wood College, 

1877.] Our Portrait Gallery. 3& 

Hampshire, a fine edifice built in a healthy position by the well-known 
socialist reformer, Bobert Owen and his disciples, and called by them 
Harmony Hall. It was sorrounded by large farms, where lessons in the 
sabjects with which Tyndall's labours had rendered him conversant, 
were given to the more advanced students. 

The teacher of chemistry at Queenwood in those days was Dr. Frank- 
land, in whose laboratory Tyndall spent part of his time, relinquish- 
ing for this privilege a portion of his salary. Both young men began at 
length to feel the need of more thorough scientific culture. Tyndall was 
now in possession of two or three hundred pounds, and having only this to- 
depend upon, he proceeded with Professor Frankland to the university of 
Marburg, in the province of Hesse-Gassel, Germany. Here in the labora- 
toiy of the illustrious Bunsen he pursued his chemical studies, making- 
himself practically acquainted with analytical processes, both qualitative 
and quantitative. 

But Bunsen was much more than a chemist. His knowledge as a 
physicist was profound, and his celebrated investigations on gas-analysis 
touch equally the domains of physics and chemistry. For two succes- 
sive years Tyndall was a regular attendant at his admirable course of 
chemical lectures. But what most fascinated the student was a course on 
electro-chemistry, in which the whol6 subject of Voltaic-electricity was 
unfolded in the most masterly manner. To no living man is Professor 
Tyndall so deeply indebted as to his illustrious fiiend and teacher Bunsen^ 
who generously lavished his time, his space, and his appliances on pro- 
moting the interest of his pupil. 

In addition to these chemical and physical studies, which most people 
would think sufficient occupation in themselves, Tyndall worked hard 
at mathematics daring his stay at Marburg, getting up at five o*clock 
through three long and severe winters. He was fortunate enough ta 
secure for a considerable period private lessons from Professor Stegmann, 
and worked through analysis, analytical geometry of two and three 
dimensions, the Differential and Integral Calculus, and partly through 
the Calculus of Variations. 

In physics, which he finally chose as the field of his special studies 
and original labours, his first teacher was Professor Gerling. But the 
main influence brought to bear upon him in connection with these 
studies was his alliance with Dr. Knoblauch, who at that time was called 
to Marburg as extraordinary Professor of Physics. He brought with him 
firom Berlin a choice private collection of apparatus, with which he illus- 
trated his lectures. Professor Tyndall's researches in radiant heat, 
though carried out long after his return from Germany, were probably 
prompted by the experiments of Knoblauch, who had distinguished him- 
self in this field of inquiry before going to Marburg. 

Tyndairs first scientific paper was a mathematical essay on screw 


86 Our Portrait Gallery. [Jan. 

surfaces, accepted by the faculty in Marburg as his inaugui*al dissertation 
when he took his degree. His first pl^ysical paper was a brief one on the 
phenomena of a water jet, published in Ihe Philosophical Magazine. 

Faraday's discovery of diamagnetism, and Pliicker*s researches on the 
action of nmgnetism upon crystals, then attracted universal attention. 
At the suggestion of Professor Knoblauch, Tyndall commenced an ex- 
haustive investigation of this subject, the two friends agreeing to make the 
inquiry a joint one. The first brief paper on this subject was published 
in tho Philosophical Magazine for March, 1850. It was followed by a 
much more elaborate memoir in July of the same year, showing that 
Pliicker's and Faraday*s results were due not to the action of any new 
" optic-axis force,*' or " magne-crystallic force," but to striking modifi- 
cations of the known forces of magnetism and diamagnetism by crystal- 
line structure. Tyndall subsequently conducted in Professor Knoblauch's 
cabinet a long inquiry into electro-magnetic attractions. 

Early in 1851 he went to Berlin, where he made the acquaintance of 
many illustrious men, including Dove, Biess, the two Boses, Mitscherlicb, 
Poggendofif, Clausius, and Du Bois-Baymond. He also had an interview 
with Humboldt. But his recollections of Berlin are chiefly connected with 
the late Professor Magnus. Few have done more than this distinguished 
man to further the efforts of young original workers in physics and 
chemistry. Besides the apparatus placed by the Prussian Government 
under his immediate direction, he was ever ready to devote his private 
means to the promotion of scientific work. In his laboratory Tyndall 
pursued his researches in diamagnetism and magne-crystallic action, 
publishing an account of these labours in the Phiiosophical Magazine for 
September, 1851. 

In that year he returned to England, and resumed for a time his old 
duties at Queenwood College. Immediately on his return he attended 
the meeting of the British Association at Ipswich, under the presidency 
of the Astronomer Boyal. He travelled to Ipswich in company with 
Professor Huxley, and then began a friendship which has remained un- 
broken for more than five-and-twenty years. A curious circumstance in 
connection with this event is thus mentioned in Tyndall's work, entitled 
** Faraday as a Discoverer," p. 204 : — 

'' Then, for the first time, and on my way to the meeting of the British Asso- 
ciation, I met a man who has since made his mark upon the intellect of his 
time ; who has long been, and who by the strong law of natural affinity must 
continue to be, a brother to me. We were both without definite ontlook at the 
time, needing proper work, and only anxious to have it to perform. The chairs 
of Natural History and of Physics being advertized as vacant in the University 
of Toronto ; we applied for them, he for the one, I for the other : but, possibly 
guided by a prophetic instinct, the University authorities declined having any- 
thing to do with either of us. If I remember rightly, we were equally unlucky 

1877.] Our Portrait Gallery. 87 

At this Ipswich meeting Professor Tyndall had the privilege of renew- 
ing the acquaintance, made a year before, with Professor Faraday, and 
then, it may be said, began another friendship, which ended only with 
Faraday's death, in 1867. 

Professor Tyndall's connection with the Koyal Institution arose out of 
a visit of Dr. Bence Jones, to Berlin, after Tyndall had left that city. In 
consequence of what he heard of Tyndall from the scientific men of 
Berlin, he invited him to give one of the Friday evening lectures at the 
Institution. The circumstance is thus related in the work from which 
we have just quoted, p. 1 26 : — 

" In December, 1851, after I had quitted Germany, Dr. Bence Jones went to 
the Prussian capital to see the celebrated experiments of Du Bois-Raymond ; 
and influenced, I suppose, by what he lieard, he afterwards invited me to give a 
Friday evening discourse at the Royal Institution. I consented, not without fear 
and trembling, for the Royal Institution was to me a kind of dragon's den, where 
tact and strength would be necessary to save me from destruction. On February 
11th, 1853, the discourse was given, and it ended happily. I allude to these 
things that I may mention that though my aim and object in that lecture was 
to subvert the notions boti of Faraday and Pliicker, and to establish in oppo> 
sition to their views what I regarded as the trnlh, it was very far from pro> 
ducing in Faraday either enmity or anger. At the conclusion of the lecture,, 
he quitted his accustomed seat, crossed the theatre to the corner into which I 
had shrunk, shook me by the hand, and brought me back to the table." 

Immediately afterwards, the Chair of Natural Philosophy in the Insti- 
tution was offered to him. Proposals from other quarters were made 
at the same time ; but the thought of being near Faraday at once deter- 
mined Tyndall's choice. He was unanimously elected to the post named 
above in May, 1853. 

At this time one of the principal points of discussion among scientific 
men was, whether the new force of diamagnetism recently discovered, 
illustrated, and developed with such extraordinary ardour by Faraday, was 
a polar force, like that of magnetism, or not. On this question Tyndall 
had contributed a brief paper to the Philosophical Magazine before he 
quitted Hampshire. In- the Royal Institution he now followed up 
his researches, and the Philosophical Transactions for 1855 contain a 
memoir in which all the phenomena forming the basis of the prevalent 
notion with regard to magnetic polarity were shown to have each its 
exact counterpart in the phenomena of diamagnetism. This investiga- 
tion placed it beyond doubt that, as regards polarity, magnetism and 
diamagnetism stand exactly on the same footing, the only difference 
between them being, that the one polarity is an inversion of the other. 

The most celebrated supporter of diamagnetic polarity in those days 
was Professor Weber of Gottingen ; while by far its most celebrated 

88 Our Portrait Gallery. [Jan. 

assailant was Faraday himself. Objections, moreover, had been urged 
by Matteucci, Yon Feilitsch and others, on the ground that the experi- 
ments had been made with eonduetors, in which induced currents conld 
be formed, and that the attractions and repulsions observed in the case 
of diamagnetic bodies were probably dne to the interaction between these 
currents and the magnets brought into play. The challenge was given 
to produce the so-called polar e£fects of diamagnetism with non- 

This challenge was accepted. With an apparatus devised by^W. Weber 
and constructed by Leyser of Leipsic, the polarity, which had been 
previously established in the case of bismuth, was extended by Tyndall 
to slate, marble, calc-spar, sulphur, and other insulating substances, 
including the selfsame heavy glass with which Faraday had discovered 
diamagnetism. The polarity of liquids^ both magnetic and diamagnedc, 
was also established in this investigation. 

The literature produced by Professor Tyndall in connection with these 
researches, consists of a series of memoirs published in the PhUosophieal 
Ql^rarucuitians, and since collected in a volume, entitled " Researches on 
Diamagnetism and Magne-ciystallic Action.'* 

In 1856, Professor Tyndidl occupied a Friday evening at the Boyal 
Institution with a lecture on the Cleavage of Slate Bocks, following up 
■and developing in the discourse, the observations of Sharpe and Sorby, 
which connected cleavage with pressure. Professor Huxley, who was 
present at the lecture, thought that the reasoning which applied to the 
lamination of slate, might also apply to that of glacier-ice. He and his 
friend, having already arranged a visit to Switzerland, immediately 
resolved to associate with this visit an examination of the so-called 
"ribboned," "veined," or laminated structure of glaciers, which had 
been brought into special prominence by the researches of Forbes. The 
present President of the Boyal Society, Dr. Hooker, also formed one of 
the party. 

The first clear case in which pressure showed itself as the obvious and 
undoubted cause of the structure, was observed at the foot of the ice 
cascade on the Strahl-eck branch of the lower Grindelwald glacier. At 
the base of the cascade, the surface of the glacier was tlirown into violent 
longitudinal compression, and at right angles to the direction of this 
pressure, the lamination appeared. 

Professor Tyndall pursued this subject in subsequent years. The 
view had been entertained that the lamination was the mere continuance 
of the bedding produced upon the heights by successive falls of snow. 
And though Agassiz had cited an observation of the kind. Professor 
Tyndall was not satisfied until in 1858, he discovered ice-sections, on 
which both the bedding and the lamination were plainly exhibited, the 
one crossing the otlier at a high angle. A perfect similarity was thus 

1877.] Our Portrait Gallery. 89 

established between the lamination of glacier-ice and the] cleavage of 
slate rocks. 

In 1857, Professor Tyndall, aided by Mr. Hirst, made copious measure- 
ments upon the Mer de Glace, and its tributary glaciers. To account 
for the transformation of snow into ice, and for the apparent viscosity of 
the glacier, Tyndall invoked the] fact of re-gelation discovered by 
Faraday. The cause of re-gelation has been a topic of discussion in 
which many able men have taken part 

Thus began Professor TyndalPs yearly visits to the Alps, which have 
been continued without interruption for one-and-twenty years. Counting 
his first excursion, in 1849, when he was a student in the University of 
Marburg, and his difficult winter visit with the view of determining the 
motion of the Mer de Glace at the close of the inclement December of 
1859, Professor Tyndall has made in all three-and-twenty visits to the 
Swiss peaks and glaciers. His literary productions arising out of these 
visits are the following: — 

Various papers in the Fhilosophical Transactions and elsewhere, in- 
cluding investigations on the physical properties, and molecular structure 
of lake ice. ** Glaciers of the Alps," published in 1860. " Mountain- 
eering in 1861." "Hours of Exercise in the Alps," and ** Forms of 
Water,** a boy's book about glaciers. 

Matter presents itself in three forms, the solid, the liquid, and the 
gaseous. Mainly by the masterly and original researches of Melloni^ 
in connection with which may be mentioned the refined experiments 
of Knoblauch, the action of solids and liquids upon radiant heat had 
been amply and beautifully demonstrated. But no similar action of 
gaseous matters had ever been established. This incompleteness of 
the field of research attracted Professor Tyndall's attention ; it had 
indeed constituted a subject of conversation between him and his friends 
some years before he brought his thoughts definitely to bear upon it. 

In the early part of 1859, he devised a differential method of experiment, 
by which the delicacy and severity of the tests previously applied to 
gases and vapours were indefinitely augmented. Not only were gases 
and vapours thus proved competent to act upon radiant heat, but the 
most astonishing differences in radiative and absorptive power, were proved 
to exist between them. The difference between mechanical mixtures like 
air, and chemical combinations like nitrous oxide, in their action upon 
radiant heat, revealed itself in a very surprising manner. 

Professor Tyndall's writings arising out of the researches thus begun, 
consist of a long series of memoirs contributed to the Philosophical 
Transactions, and the Fhilosophical Magazine, They have since been 
published in a volume, under the title of *' Contributions to Molecular 

40 Our Portrait Oallery. [Jan. 

Physics, in the Domain of Radiant Heat/' each memoir being preceded 
by an analysis of its contents. 

The leading idea of the entire line of inquiry is to make radiant heat 
an explorer of molecular condition. The reciprocity of radiation and 
absorption, dynamic radiation, combustion and incandescence by perfectly 
non-luminous rays, the action of a planetary atmosphere in raising the 
planet's temperature, illustrations of the physical cause of transparency, 
and opacity, and various other points of interest are discussed in these 

In 1869, Professor Tyndall, while bathing near the Bel Alp, slipped, fell, 
and was wounded. Through mismanagement erysipelas set in, and the 
state of his leg and foot for a time was very grave indeed. After six 
weeks' confinement in bed, under the care of Dr. Gautier, of Geneva, 
the wound was healed. The Professor remembers with gratitude the 
kindness of his Geneva ft'iends at that time, and above all that of Lady 
Emily Peel, in whose beautiful villa on the banks of Lake Leman the 
cure was completed. 

Curiously enough, this very year we find Professor Tyndall engaged in 
researches intimately connected with the treatment of wounds. He had 
been, working previously at the decomposition of gases and vapours by 
light, and the formation of what he calls ** actinic clouds," as visible 
results of the decomposition. In their incipient and most highly 
attenuated state, these clouds, no matter what might be the vapour from 
which they were formed, showed a pure cerulean blue. Such observations, 
variously modified and repeated, Professor Tyndall connected with the 
blue of the sky, and he obtained from his artificial sky all the optical 
phenomena, those of polarization included, which have been observed in 
the natural firmament. 

In these inquiries it was necessary to employ perfectly moteless air, 
and this necessity directed Professor Tyndairs attention in a special 
manner to the floating matter of the atmosphere. His inquiries on this 
subject led him into the heart of the so-called *' germ theory " of putre- 
faction and infection ; and he summed up his views on the subject in a 
discourse, entitled **Dust and Disease," published in the " Proceedings of 
the Royal Institution for 1870," and also in Part I. of the last edition of 
the '* Fragments of Science.'* 

The views enunciated in this discourse were received with marked 
disfavour by the medical profession, with the exception of a few eminent 
men, the feeling being confii-med, and to all appearance justified, by the 
subsequent researches of Dr. Bastian. Under conditions never before- 
thought of, even by the most strenuous adherents of the doctrine, this 
active investigator announced the sure and certain occurrence, in his 
infusions, of spontaneous generation. According to him, moreover, the 
swarming life of putrefying wounds, and the microscopic life found in the 

1877.] Our Portrait Gallery. 41 

blood, tissues, and exudation liquids of animals 8u£fenng from acute con- 
tagious disease, arise spontaneously within the body. Such a doctrine 
must materially mfluence the physician*s practice, and must have the 
most serious bearing upon human life. 

Unconvinced of its body, Professor Tyndall, in 1875, commenced an 
exhaustive examination of the whole subject, ftrom a new point of view. 
The first instalment of his researches has just been published in the 
Philosophical Transaeiions ; the result of which may be summed up in 
the statement, that so far as research has hitherto penetrated, life was 
never proved to have been produced independently of antecedent life. 

To keep congnious things together, we have coupled Professor Tyndall 's 
inquiries of 1869, with those of 1875 and 1876; but other events and 
investigations, which came between these two dates, must not be omitted. 

In the autumn of 187^, the Professor, in response to invitations 
frequently repeated, went to the United States, and lectured for four 
months in the principal Eastern cities of the Union. The interest 
manifested in his lectures was unprecedenteJ. Illustrated reports of 
them were issued separately by the proprietors of the New York Tribune, 
and more than a quarter million copies of these reports were sold. The 
proceeds of the lectures, after travelling and hotel expenses, and the 
wages of assistants had been deducted, amounted to somewhat over 13,000 
dollars, which Professor Tyndall, with an unselfish munificence as unprece- 
dented as the interest shown in his lectures, handed over to trustees to be 
applied to the perpetual education in the universities of Europe, of two 
yoimg Americans possessing necessary|bias and ability to pursue a scientific 
life. The fund has been so invested, that its present interest is nearly 
£200 a year, which, at all events in the Universities of Germany, will 
suffice for the education of two young men.* 

During his stay in America, Professor Tyndall visited Niagara, and he 
afterwards made his observations on the cataract the subject of a Friday 
evening discourse, which appears in Park I. of the last edition of his 
•* Fragments of Science.** 

On his return from America, and in his capacity of scientific adviser 
to the Trinity House, Professor Tyndall undertook the direction of an 
investigation, inaugurated by the Elder Brethren, into the causes which 
affect the transmission of sound through the atmosphere. The inquiry 
had reference to the establishment of a system of fog-signals upon our 
coasts. A full report of this difficult and laborious investigation has 
been placed before the House of Commons; while, in a more con- 

* A second edition of Prof. Tyndall's American ''Lectnrcs on Light," has been pub- 
liihed bj Me«r8. Longman k Co. 

42 Our Portrait Qallery. [Jan. 

densed and organized form, it has been' presented to the Royal Soeietj, 
and published in the PhUotophkal Transactions, 

Every agent to which influence on, sound has been hitherto ascribed-— 
wind, hail, rain, snow, and fog — ^was in succession submitted to scrutiny. 
The result, with regard to the four last-mentioned agents, was a com- 
plete reversal of the views generally entertained regarding them. It was 
proved that none of them exercised any sensible effect on the transmis- 
sion of sound through the air. The observations made at sea were 
afterwards verified by experiments in the laboratory, where artificial 
showers of rain and snow, and artificial clouds and fogs, far heavier and 
denser than any observed in nature, were proved to be sensibly powerless 
to stop or stifle sound. 

In an investigation, already referred to, Professor Tyndall had operated 
on visible actinic clouds ; in the present inquiry the existence of invitible 
acoustic clouds, continually drifting through the atmosphere, and render- 
ing it opaque to sound on days of perfect optical transparency, was 
established. A complete parallelism was proved to exist between those 
imseen clouds which intercept and scatter the waves of sound, and the 
clouds of our atmosphere which intercept and scatter the waves of light. 

In addition to the works already mentioned. Professor Tyndall has 
published, " Heat, a Mode of Motion ;" *' Sound ;" <* Lessons in Electri- 
city ;*' *' Notes of a Course of Nine Lectures on Light;" and '* Notes of 
a Course of Seven Lectures on Electrical Phenomena and Theories." 

We have thus, as far as our limits allowed, touched upon the various 
services which Professor Tyndall has rendered to science. Great and 
admirable as those best qualified for judging know them to be, they be« 
come still more worthy of admiration when account is taken of the diffi- 
culties with which he has had to contend. It has been mentioned that in 
early boyhood he did not enjoy the advantages ^of a good school. It is 
true this evil was in some degree remedied by his continuance at school 
till he was nineteen years old ; but, on the other hand, he was compelled 
to devote nearly nine years of the best part of his life to practical work in 
order to obtain the means necessary for his scientific education. What 
he has accomplished has been achieved by hard labour, and without 
external prop or interest of any kind. 

It is satisfactory to know that a life of such self-denying devotedness 
to science for its own sake has not been without its reward. In addition 
to the pure delight of searching for scientific truth, Professor Tyndall 
has reaped a rich harvest of the highest honours. Besides being a 
Fellow of the Hoyal Society, he is a member of various foreign scientific 
societies, a D.C.L. of Oxford, an LL.D. of Cambridge and LL.D. of 
Edinburgh. His works have been translated [and edited ^by the highest 
scientific authorities in France and Germany, and the unprecedented 
success of his lectures in America has been noted above. On the 

1877.] Our Portrait Gallery. 48 

laudari a laudtUia principle, he may well be proud of the exalted rank 
awarded him ,among the first men of science throughout the .world. No- 
one conyefsant with Continental scientific literature can iiEuilto be struck 
with the bigli encomiums lavished upon him by writers who are them- , 
selves of the highest standing. 

To rare skill in reading the Book of Nature, Professor TyndaU adds 
a power of expounding its mysteries to the uninitiated — a gift still more 
rarely combined with profound scientific knowledge. His faculty, so 
early developed, of bringing before his mind*s eye vivid conceptions of 
things not present to bodily sight, his mathematical training, which 
gives him a precision of thought denied to his great predecessor, Faraday, 
and last, not least, his youthful eagerness in the study of English gram- 
mar, which, as he said in his address to the students at University 
College, was to his young mind " a discipline of the highest value, and 
a source of unflagging delight,*' have combined to give his scientific 
expositions a luminous transparency which brings the most subtle con- 
ceptions within the range of popular and youthfiil comprehension. 

Nor are his lectures without literary graces, which render them as 
attractive as they are instructive. Fully alive to the fact that human 
nature does not consist in intellect alone, he studies to please as well as 
inform, and with animated eloquence strives, not without effect, to inspire 
his hearers and readers with something of that enthusiastic [devotion to 
truth for which he is so prO'eminently remarkable. 

As fearless in the assertion of what he believes to be truth as he is 
eager in its pursuit, Professor Tyndall shrinks not from openly avowing 
his convictions, however unpopular, supporting them with an argumenta- 
tive ability for which he is no doubt partly indebted to the controversial 
habits of thought formed by intercourse with his father, and strengthened 
by frequent debates, in which, as he tells us, he sometimes took the 
Protestant side, and at other times, with startling success, the Catholic 

By his *• firee handling " of subjects lying in the disputable border- 
land between science and religion, he has provoked bitter hostilities. 
Some of the attacks made upon him after his address before the British 
Association at Belfast were simply ferocious. These he ignored. The 
nobler and more argumentative assailants, among whom Dr. Martineau 
deserves special mention, he sought to answer in a firm and dignified 
manner, in two articles, which have been republished in the last edition 
of his " Fragments of Science." But hostility in this world has not 
been his only meed, for few have enjoyed more fully than he has the 
unswerving friendship of great and good men. 

Professor Tyndall was married on the 29th of February last, to Louisa 
Charlotte, eldest daughter of Lord and Lady Claude Hamilton; the 
ceremony being performed by Dean Stanley, in Henry the Seventh's 

44 In the MidnighU fJan. 

Chisel, Westminster Abbey. On the occasion of his marriage, a Silver 
Salver, together with the sum of three hundred guineas, was presented 
to their Professor, bj Members of the Royal Institution ; it having been 
decided " that the amount of the contributions should not exceed one 
guinea each." 


By Lady Wilde. 

"Rkad me a tale to-night, my Love, 

With thy voice so soft aud low, 
For my heart as charmedly waits for the sound, 

As the earth for the falling snow. 
Yet, not from the pages of classic lore 

Of the mighty heroes of old, 
Tho' their deeds of gloiy were fitly shrined 

In Darius* casket of gold : 

Nor of Chiefs and Vikings who drained the^mead 

To the gods in their lordly halls; 
Nor of knightly calvacades sweeping by 

A leagured city's walls : 
Nor yet would I aught from the tragic muse 

Of her dark and terrible tale, 
For on every line some passion or crime 

Hath left a serpent trail : 

Nor of human sorrow or human love, 

Or the toil of the human brain, 
Such memories faU on the heart like fire 

And I long for the gentle rain. 
But read to me words that will bring me peace. 

And soothe the unquiet breast, 
For my soul like a dove would flee away 

And be for ever at rest. 

Some verse from the holy and sacred Book, 

Transcending all human lore. 
That saith unto sin — ^I condemn thee not, 

Gk>, sinner, and sin no more ! 

1877.] In the Midnight. 46 

Yet read to me not from the ancient Law 

Of the curse of Jehovah's ire. 
On the miunnring lip and the hearts that pined 
With a feverish vain desire : 

Nor yet of the shuddering, bitter cry 

Borne on the midnight blast, 
When the Angel of Death through Egypt's land 

By the blood-stained lintels passed : 
Nor of Israers march with the Ark of God, 

Through Arabia's burning land, 
For it mirrors our life — that deadly strife 

With the foe upon either hand. 

And take me not up to Sinai's mount 

Where Moses quaked with fear, 
And the bright Shechinah illumed the skies 

From Horeb to Mount Seir. 
For I shrink from the glare of the prophet's eyes, 

Denouncing the wrath divine 
On those who lavished their costliest gifts 
To build up an idol's shrine. 

But read me the words of the loved Saint John, 

Evangel of holiest faith, 
That draws the soul to the fount of light 

And the life of the spirit's breath. 
Read me the tale of the Saviour's tears 

By the grave where Lazarus slept, 
For 'tis sweet to a sinner's heart to know 

That the sinless one hath wept. 

Read of the Vine whose branches we are. 

Of the Shepherd who guards the fold. 
Of the Jasper stones and the gates of Pearl 

In the heavenly City of gold, 
Where no pain is, neither sorrow nor tears. 

Nor the shadow of human death, 
For the saved shall drink of the River of Life, 

Even as the Spirit saith. 

Read, till the holy and blessed words 

Fall on life's fever dream. 
With a holy music tender and sweet 

As the Hebrew's by Babel's stream. 
Read, till the warm tears fall, my Love, 

With thy voice so soft and low, 
And the Saviour's merits wiQ plead above, 

For the Soul that prayeth below. 


The Shadow an the Wall. 



By E. J. Ctjbtib. 

Author of «*A Sona iw The Twilight," ato <'EATHi.iiir*s Beykitok. * 

Part 11. 


The quiet autumn of my life has come, 
A sober eventide, with yet some gleams 
Of mellowed gold, of smiles serenely sweet ; 
Some tender memories of days now dead ; 
Some tranquil present joys, some future hopes 
For here — more for hereafter, and my days 
Flow calmly on beneath God*s loving eye. 


Thobkdale Lodge, generallj called 
The Lodge, situated within walking 
distance of the pretty old Cathedral 

town of W , had been for years 

in the possession of maiden ladies. 
I do not mean that maiden ladies 
had always lived at The Lodse, but 
they had been the owners thereof, 
had received rent for it, and had 
bequeathed it to other lady rela- 
tives, who either were •* old maids," 
or who became so in due course ; 
and who continued to let the house 
and grounds to desirable tenants, 
and lived themselves elsewhere. 

But upon one occasion, some 
years before this part of my story 
opens, one of these desirable tenants 
having departed. The Lodge was not, 
as usual, advertised '* To Let," and 
rumour said — and oddly enough 
said truly — that the maiden lady to 
whom it at present belonged, was 
about to live in it herself. 

The people in W who 

called upon strangers, and who .gave 
parties, and gossipped about their 
neighbours, began to wonder what 
Miss Bussel was like, and to hope 
that she would prove an acquisition. 
"She can't be very young, you 
know, my dear, when she can live 
by herself." The owner of Thorn- 
dale Lodge had always, I may here 
remark, been looked upon as a myth, 
a person who had a name, but not 
a personality. 

Miss Bussel was not, strictly 
speaking, young. You, my readers, 
have met her before, when she was 
young, and when her home was with 
ner maiden aunt. Miss Heathcote, 

ia G . To that aunt she owed 

the possession of Thomdale. 

The twenty years which have 
elapsed since we met her last, have 
dealt kindly with Miss Bussel. She 
had not grown stouter or slighter. 
Her hair was rich and abundant, but 
her complexion was not so clear, 
or so briUiant as of old. Her dress 
was always handsome, but dark in 
colour, and although she had not 
the scanty pinched appearance 
which so often stamps the old maid, 
neither did she attempt the fashion- 
able shapes and trimmings suitable 
only to youth. In short, she had 
grown old gracefully. How few 
women could say so much. 

She had such a bright, happy ex- 


The Shadow on the WaU. 


pression too, tliat one would in- 
stiDctively turn to her for sympa- 
thy in trouble, and the trust would 
not be misplaced, for Eleanor Eus- 
sel was essentially a comforter. She 
had had no crushing sorrow to 
bear, yet perhaps if all the secret 
places of her memory were opened 
it would be found that her life had 
not been utterly without trial and 
disappointment. But she had not 
only outlived but had overlived 
all such crosses, and had neither 
grown morbid nor cynical. 

And is not a woman so situated, 
especially when her means are suf- 
ficient to make her quite indepen- 
dent, far happier what may be 
called " alone in the world," than 
if she had married, perhaps without 
much affection for her husband, 
but only from a weak dread of 
being called an " old maid." Miss 
Bussel had laid aside the tram- 
mels of girlhood. She could do 
what pleased her unquestioned ; 
she was sufficiently attractive from 
her charm of manner and her agree- 
able conversation to be sought out 
as a companion by men, and she 
was, fortunately for herself, too 
old to be accused of "setting 
her cap " at the best catch among 

Is not such a life far more en- 
viable for a woman than are the 
lives of some of those *' matrons" 
whom we see around us in hun- 
dreds? Girls who have married 
for 'Move" on small means, and 
whose lives are a daily struggle, and 
whose affection for their husbands, 
although it may not fly out of the 
window according to the old adage, 
loses all its delicate refinement, its 
poetry, and romance. It was very 
nice to be petted, and made much 
of by Jack, or Torn, or Harry in 
the courting days, but after the 
second cradle and the first peram- 
bulator have been bought, poor Mrs. 
J., or T., or H. is too much taken 
up with that absorbing question, 

'* What is to be done with the cold 
mutton?" to have either time or 
inclination for mooning. 

Miss Bussel made some kind 
friends and pleasant acquaintances 
before she haa been very long living 
at The Lodge. W— was deci- 
dedly a social place. It was a gar- 
rison as well as a cathedral town, 
so that the '* prunes and prisms" 
of the clerical set were diluted 
and counterbalanced by the verve 
and dash of the military set, and as 
the former was not too proper to 
allow itself to be acted upon by 
the latter, the result was upon the 
whole satisfactory. 

W— - was a popular quarter, 
for everyone called upon the officers, 
from the bishop down to the lowest 
of the minor canons ; to say nothing 
of the resident gentry who were 
rich enough to keep handsome 
houses in the fashionable part of 
the old town, and country houses 
to which they migrated the begin- 
ning of June, and left again early in 
November. And every one enter- 
tained; again beginning with the 
Bishop — he had two pretty daugh- 
ters, grown up — who gave in winter 
large dinner parties d la Russe, 
which were rather heavy, and in 
summer garden parties, which were 
decidedly light, and which began 
with croquet, and ended with a 
** severe tea" and music. The en- 
tertainments given by the minor 
canons were stupid little affairs, at 
which the people stared at each 
other, and played bezique. 

The resident gentry were the 
people who really did entertain. In 
summer they got up pic-nics, and 
had croquet and archery parties, 
ending with a dance ; and in winter, 
charades and charming balls, at 
which the Misses Bishop, and the 
daughters of The Very Bev. the 
Dean, and the Precentor's sisters, 
and the Chancellor's nieces all 
danced away with the gallant 
"sons of Mars," just as if they 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


had not been brought up under the 
shadow of the cathedral h'mes. 

At all these festivities, lay and 
clerical, Miss Bussel was soon a 
welcome guest. I have before said 
that she was not too old to be at- 
tractive. Young ladies liked her 
because she was neither bitter nor 
ill-natured, and because at her own 
very pleasant sociable little parties 
they were quite certain to meet the 
very person of all others whom they 
wished to meet. Young men liked 
her because she was, as they of 
course expressed it, " such a regular 
brick !" " always up to a bit of fun, 
by Jove, and no nonsense about 
her." She would play for dancing 
for the whole length of an evening, 
and there was no one who knew so 
well how to dress and arrange 
people for a charade. She could 
take a hand at whist, too, if one 
was wanted to make up '^ a rubber," 
and if any lady had a grievance, 
from neuralgia in her eyebrow to 
a hopeless love affair. Miss Bussel 
was invariably appealed to for sym- 
pathy or for cure. 

So it is not to be wondered at if 

she found W a very pleasant 

place; and if her friends now and 
then complained that she was some- 
what reserved about herself, and 
confessed that she knew far more 
about themselves individually than 
they knew of her, no one thought 
of blaming her ; and if one or two 
of her intimates did once or twice 
ask how it was that with her many 
attractions and her independent 
means, she had never mamed, she 
would laughingly reply that perhaps 
she had not yet met " Mr. Bight," 
and that she did not by any means 
consider that her sun had set. 

It was August, 18 — . The sum- 
mer had been rather a quiet season 

at "W . The Bishop had been 

obliged to attend the Session of 
Parliament, and Mrs. Bishop had 
taken advantage of the opportunity 
to have her elder daughters pre- 

sented at St. James*8, and to get 
masters for the younger members 
of the episcopal nursery. The Misses 
Bishop had had their pretty heads 
somewhat turned, although they 
partook of the gaieties of ''the 
season" in a very mild form, as 
became the daughters of a church 
dignitary, and they began rather 

to look down on W society, 

and showed unmistakably that they 
were inclined to " turn up their 
noses " at it, in their letters to the 
young ladies at The Deanery, a 
proceeding which made the said 
young ladies very wrathful, and 
caused their mother, Mrs. Dean, 
rather inconsequently to exclaim 
** that she thought Mrs. Bishop had 
more sense." 

Then, by some untoward circum- 
stances, W— — had been left with- 
out the head quarters of a regiment 
during the spring and summer 
months, and as the band was a de- 
cided acquisition, to say nothing of 
the tameneifs of the croquet parties 
in consequence of a ''limited lia- 
bility" in officers, the inhabitants 

of W felt themselves aggrieved, 

and letters headed " Our unpro- 
tected state" appeared in the local 
papers, and were as absurd as such 
letters usually are. But Lord Wim- 
burne, of Wimbume Priory, who 
was a D.L.y and nearly related to 
the Secretary for War, applied to 
have the evil remedied, and he 
apparently succeeded, for it was 
announced that the — th were under 
orders to proceed to W forth- 

So in due time the — th arrived, 
and were duly called upon, and 
their band began to play twice a- 
week in public, and in London the 
Ministry ate their whitebait, and 
the "season" being over, the 
Bishop, family, and suite returned 
to The Palace, and the old town 
felt like itself once more. 

Miss Bussel was sitting one 
afternoon in her pretty drawing- 


The Shadow on the WdU. 


room, reading, when a light step 
sounded upon the gravel without, 
and a young girl came in through 
the open window. She was a pretty 
brigh t-looking little creature, dressed 
in a fresh, crisp white muslin, with 
a little black silk scarf about her 
shoulders and a sailor-hat trimmed 
with blue upon her head. She 
danced up to Miss Bussel's side, 
and throwing her arms about her 
neck, .she kissed her a dozen times. 
"You didn't know I had come 
back,** she said, " I knew I should 
surprise you." 

*• I thought you were not coming 
for another week. Ah, Rachel, dear, 
you should have stayed not a week 
only, but until Christmas." 

"Now, Granny!" — Granny was 
Bachel Scott's pet name for Miss 
Bussel — "please don't begin to 
scold me wnen I'm so happy ; and 
besides, indeed, I have had school 
enough ; all the schools in the world 
could not make me a bit cleverer ! 
I never could be anything but a 
dunce, except about music, and that 
was dreadmlly expensive." And 
Bachel gave a little sigh. *' So 
here I am now, and I can see my 
darling old Granny every day, and 
I intend to be very good." 

" And very dressy, too, I think," 
said Miss Bussel, smiling, as she 
touched the girl's blue sash. 

Bachel got very red. " Now, 
Granny, it's only my white dress, 
and there is no use in sparing it, 
for indeed I have not nearly done 
growing yet. You're just like aunt 
Conway, she began at me the mo- 
ment I came down, and she said, 
too, that I mustnotbe goingaboutby 
myself, especiallv here" — Bachel's 
mode of expression was decidedly 
hazy — '* because I had to come by 
the barrack wall " 

" And your aunt said quite right," 
interrupted Miss Bussel. '* You are 
too young, and too pretty, Bachel, 
to be seen walking about by your- 

" But if I can find a way across 
the fields at the back P" 

" If you can you may come that 
way, but I think the white dresses 
must be given up, and for everyday 
wear, dear, don't you think you 
could get more serviceable gloves ? " 

Bachel looked admiringly at her 
pretty little hand which was covered 
with delicate French grey kid. 

*' I bate ugly gloves," she said, 
half pouting. 

•*0f course you do, dear, and 
there are times when you ought to 
wear both your pretty dress and 
your dainty gloves. Bemember, 
Bachel" — and Miss Bussel put her 
arm affectionately round the girl's 
slight figure — "remember that al- 
though your aunt is not poor, she 
is not rich enough to allow you 
to be very extravagant, and now if 
you are asked to parties your dress 
will ' 

" And shall I be asked," inter- 
rupted Bachel, breathlessly, "to 
The Palace P and to meet the 
officers P—oh ! " 

** You will not be asked any- 
where, if you are such a little goose," 
said Miss Bussel, trying bard to 
look severe. " The officers will not 
care to look at a little school-girl 
like you." 

" Will they not, indeed 1" returned 
Bachel with a saucy smile, which 
made her look bewitchingly pretty. 
" I know one of them alreadv, and 
hs cared to talk to me, and oh, . 
Granny, h$ is such a darling ! " 

" Tell me all about him, pet,"^ 
said Miss Bussel, seeing at once 
the wisdom of encouraging the- 
child's innocent confidence. 

Bachel drew a footstool beside her 
friend's chair, and looking up with 
her radiant violet eyes sparkling, she 
began, *• "Well, Granny, you know I 
came home yesterday, and of course 
I had to travel all the way by my- 
self, and I was determined to be 
very good, and not to speak to any 
one, and to get into a carriage in 


The Shadow on the WalL 


which there were only nice old 
ladies. Well, I had two with rae 
until we came to the junction, 
where the train stopped for an 
hour, and there my two old women 
went away to some other place. I 
was very hungry, so I went into 
the refreshment room, and had a 
cup of tea, and then I sat there 
quietly, with my veil down, waiting 
until the train was ready to start, 
and oh ! it was such fun watching 
the people. While I was tliere I 
heard another train coming in, and 
presently tlie refreshment room 
got very full, and I began to feel 
just a little wee bit lonely among 
such a crowd of strangers, when a 
gentleman came in, and he looked 
so very nice, and so very different 
from every one else, that I could 
not help watching him. Granny. 
But he didn't see me, Fm quite 
sure of that. Well, he went over 
to the table, and got a cup of coffee, 
and I thought he looked like a nice 
fellow in a book, so tall, and so well 
dressed, such nice gloves and white 
wrists below his coat-sleeves, and 
his hair, as much as I could see of 
it, was bright and curly; but I 
don't think he was exactl}' hand- 
some, except for his mouth and 
teeth, and his eyes ; but I saw all 
that afterwards '* Rachel in- 
terrupted herself to remark — " So, 
Granny, he drank his coffee, and I 
think he must often have been at 
the station before, for he called the 
girl behind the counter * Mary,' as 
if he knew her, and when he was 
going to pay he pulled out a great 
roll of bank-notes, and he took out 
one, which he gave to the girl, and 
then he got his change, and went 
away, and I was just getting up to 
go too, when 1 saw the roll of 
money on the ground, and I ran 
and picked it up before any one saw 
it. He thought he had put it into 
his pocket — such a large roll I I 
hnrdly knew what to do. I did 
not like to give it to a porter to 

give him, so I thought I might just 
as well go and give it to him myself. 
So when I came out on the plat- 
form, I saw him lighting a cigar, 
and I went up to him and gave 
him the money. I don*t know one 
bit what I said, but I know I felt 
getting very red, and I think I 
must have run away, if he had not 
looked so kind. He thanked me 
over and over again, and he spoke 
to me as if I were quite grown up — 
so I can't look so very young," con- 
cluded Bachel, with a deep sigh of 

" And what happened next ?" 
said Miss Bussel, although she 
knew well enough what the sequel 
was, and read the hope which had 
prompted Bachel to put on the 
white dress and the French grey 

" What happened next," con- 
tinued Bachel, *' was that he asked 
me where I was going, and when I 

said to W , he said he was 

going there too, to join his regi- 
ment " — Rachel made this an- 
nouncement with evident pride — 
''and that we might as well go 
together, if I would allow him to 
have the honour — he said honour, 
Granny — of taking care of me, as I 
had taken care of his money ; and 
he said, too, that he would not 
mind losing money every day, if it 
always came bnck to him in the 
same way, and — What are you going 
to sav P" 


" Only that I shall not like your 
friend, if he pays you absurd com- 

" Was it absurd ?" said Bachel, 
who had evidently looked upon the 
pretty speech in quite a different 
light. "I think he really meant 
it. And then we got into the same 
carriage, and he asked me all about 

W , and where I lived, and if it 

was a pleasaut place ; and I told 
him all about you, and about the 
catiudral, and about the parties at 
the Palace, and it was then I saw 


TIte Shadow on the WaU. 


htB eyes and hit teefch. I never 
saw such lovely teeth !" 

"What a little chatterbox he 
must have thought you, and he 

Erobably will not know you when 
e sees you again." 
" Not know me ! Oh, Granny !" 
cried the girl, to whom the idea of 
being forgotten by her hero was 
positive pain. " Why shouldn't he 
Know me ?" 

" Because, dear, men think they 
are privileged to talk nonsense to 
every pretty woman they meet, and 
as I do not want my little pet 
to have her head turned, I tell her 
not to believe all the things they 
will say to her. This young man 
appears to Iiave behaved like a 
gentleman ; still you must not show 
any wish to follow up the acquaint- 
ance so strangely begun ; do not 
let him imagine that he can talk to 
you when and where he likes.'' 

Poor iuoocent little Kachel ! She 
felt suddenly quenched, and vaguely 
uneasy that she had done something 
wrong. She was very young, and 
very unlearned in the ** tricks and 
the manners " of this wicked world, 
but she was as free from all the 
arts of a " missy " school-girl as it 
was possible for any woman to be. 
It was the ionate love which every 
girl, whether pretty or ugly, has of 
*' looking her best," which made 
her put on her fresh crisp muslin 
that day. Her good-looking and 
agreeable fellow traveller miglit be 
met at some unexpected corner, 
and she would like to look nice in 
his eyes. Do we not all know this 
feeling, think you? Was there 
never a time when we were guilty 
of the folly of putting on our best 
gown and our prettiest ribbon when 
we thought he would see us ? and 
quite right we were so to adorn 
ourselves, and be sure that 7te was 
not less mindful to put on his most 
becoming ** tie " when he knew that 
be was certain to meet us ! 
Mist Bussel having, doubtlees, 

the wisdom of experience, and being 
able to read Bachel's thoughts by 
its light, hastened to reassure the 
girl. ** Do not look as if I had said 
something cross, dear," she said, in 
her most winning voice ; *' I meant 
only to give you a little hint. Be- 
member, I have seen more of the 
world than you have. And now, 
will you not tell me the name of 
your hero ? I have only heard of 
him Sis' he* and *him,^ *' 

*' His name," cried Bachel, 
visibly brightening, "is Yaughan, 
and 1 think his Christian name is 
Henry, but I am not quite sure. 
He looks very like a Harry." 

" Vaughan ! — Henry Yaughan ! 
can it be possible ?" Miss Bussel 
spoke aloud, but more to herself 
than to Eachel. "Yes, he could 
have a son old enough. How very 
strange ! What am I talking 
about ? I knew a Mr. Yaughan 
very well long ago, when I was a 
girl, and it seemed to me that this 
gentleman whom you met might 
be his son." 

" Oh, I hope he is !" cried Eachel, 
clapping her hands; '^that would 
be so nice !" 

** AVell, dear, I do not see what 
good it would do to any one," replied 
Miss Russel, with a touch of the 
brusquenesB which had been charac- 
teristic of her manner when she 
was a girl. "And now," looking 
at her watch, "it is just three 
o'clock ; I want to see your aunt 
Conway, so I shall escort you 

" I do not feel smart enough to 
walk with such a gay little ladv 
as you are," Mias Bussel remarked, 
as she and Eachel came out of the 
Lodge gate, and turned towards the 

Miss Kussers pet dog, a fine' 
little skye, accompanied them. He 
trotted on before, intent upon his 
own pleasure, and just after he had 
disappeared round a corner there 
was heard a bark of defiance, then 



The Shadow on the WaU. 


a noise of scuffling, and some yelps 
of pain. Miss Bussel and Bachel 
hurried on, and found two dogs 
rolling oyer each other, and a tall 
young man making fruitless efforts 
to catch one of the combatants by 
the tail. ^ It was all over in a 
minute. The skye retired growling 
to the side of his mistress. The 
gentleman was taking off his hat 
and apologizing, and Miss Eussel 
was conscious only of seeing 
Sachel blushing furiously, while 
she stammered out what she in- 
tended to be an introduction to 
Mr. Yaughan. 

"Oh, I beg your pardon," he 
said ; " for the moment I was stupid 
enough not to know you. Travel- 
ling dress and all that makes such 
a difference ; although I ought not 
to be excused.'* 

His wonderfully eloquent eyes 
said far more to Eacliel, and she 
held out her little hand — how 
pleased she was then at having put 
on her pretty gloves — frankly 
enough to meet his ; but she felt 
very shy, and again felt very 
much inclined to run awav. She 
had to perform the introduction to 
Miss Eussel all over again — for of 
course ^fr. Yaughan had not heard 
one word of it — and then a few 
words were sufficient to let him 
know that she had heard of the 
little adventure which had led to 
the acquaintance between liaciiel 
and himself, and the young fellow 
had such a frank winning way with 
him, that Mias Hussel, after five 
minutes* conversation, felt inclined 
to echo all Eachel's praises. 

And then, having ascertained 
that Miss liussel lived at that 
" pretty place " among the trees, 
and with an openly expressed re- 
Vret that the pugnacious aspect of 
the dogs would not allow him to 
accompany the ladies, he went his 
way, and they went theirs. 

As he walked there was a wall 
upon his left hand — a rather tum- 

ble-down, iyy-coYcred wall ; and as 
he went along he amused himself — 
but I do not think he was aware he 
was amusing himself — by running 
a slender little stick he carried into 
every hole between the stones into 
which it would go ; when it presently 
snapped off short in one of them, 
he said, very apropos of course, 
"What a pretty shy little thing 
she is ! Miss Hussel is the aunt 
she told me she lived with, I sup- 
pose. She doesn't look like a 
woman who'd bother a fellow, or be 
in the way. A very nice-looking 
woman, I think. By Jove I've hit 
it ! I'll call to ask for the dog." 

By the above speech it will be 
seen that Bachel's hero was not 
half so wise as he thought himself. 

Hachel was rather silent during 
the walk home ; and, strange to 
say, Miss Russel was silent too. 
But if Kachel did not enter inco 
conversation with her companion, 
she several times vigorously scolded 
the skye for being such a bold little 
dog, and told him that he would 
positively be killed some day, and 
that " she didn't pity him !" which 
was not true, for she would have 
cried her pretty eyes out, like a 
little goose as she was. 


A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays, 
And confident to-morrows. 


Miss Russel was again sitting alone 
the following afternoon, when Mr. 
Yaughan was announced. The 
skye, mindful doubtless of the battle 
of the day before, and recognizing 
the master of bis foe, barked fu- 
riously, but very soon became 
friendly under the influence of 
Vaughan's "comeold fellow," "poor 
old fellow." The young man, you 
see, thought the dog was Miss 
Scott's, and he hoped that the pretty 
iigurc in the white dress would 


Th€ Shadow on the Wall. 


oome in while he was petting her 

Mifls BuBsell, whose heart the 
moment she saw him first, had 
warmed to one whom she believed 
to be the son of her old friend, 
welcomed Yaughan most cordially, 
and while they talked of the weather, 
and agreed that the summer had 
been rather cold, aud that the fine 
antumn would make the winter 
appear short, she was trying to 
trace all the points of resemblance 
between father and sou, and he was 
trying to keep his eyes off the 
door, as he sat leaning forward 
in hi. chair puUing the ears of the 

He looked handsome at the mo- 
ment, although, strictly speaking he 
was not a very handsome man. He 
was about five feet eleven in height, 
with a broad chest, and muscular 
limbs, but I think it was more the 
sweetness of his smile, and his 
thoroughbred and manly air which 
made people admire him. He was 
a little bit of a dandy too in bis 
dress, and he wore his fair hair in 
the style I have heard called 
'^ simple division," that is parted 
atraight down the centre of his 
head, and it was rather given to fall 
over his low broad forehead. I am 
not by any means sure that it was 
the most becoming style of hair 
dressing he could have adopted, 
bat he liked it, and of course his 
bead was his own to dress as he 

Miss Bussel felt, and acknow- 
ledged to herself, all the charm of 
his manner, and she was quite ready 
to declare her belief that he was a 
verj good young fellow. But she 
was no more right, than are any of 
us when we come to such sudden 
and rash conclusions. Harry 
Yaughan was not in the least out 
of the common, although he was 
the son of Miss Bussel's old friend, 
and although he had bright laughing 
eyes, and a smile which made him 

dangerous to look at. He was very 
warm-hearted, but somewhat fickle ; 
he would be wild upon one subject 
to-day, and wild upon a totally 
different subject to-morrow. He 
was always falling iu, and out of 
love, aud thinking he was broken 
hearted, but his bitterest enemy — 
if he had an enemy — could not say 
that he had ever been guilty of a 
dishonourable action. 

He spent money with a lavish 
hand, and it was pretty well known 
in his regiment that he had *' bled " 
his father, as the saying is, rather 
freely while at Oxford, and that 
the only books he had cared 
to study when there, were those 
which had taught Tommy Moore 
so much folly ! 

I am quite sure that even had 
Miss Bussel kuown everything 
there was to be known about her 
new acquaintance, it would not 
have made the slightest difference 
in her manner towards him ; it was 
geniality itself, for was he not 
handsome! and although he said 
nothing very brilliant, or remark- 
able, was there not a tone in his 
voice which reminded her of her 
dear old friend ? In short she liked 
him, and Harry saw that she did ; 
and the young fellow was pleased 
in his turn, for you remember he 
thought she was BacheFs aunt. 

*' 1 must ask you," Miss Bussel 
said at last, *' if you are a son of Mr. 
Yauglian, of the Oaks, — shire P " 

*'Yes," replied Harry, ***The 
Oaks ' is the name of my father's 
place. Do you kuow him? " 

'* I knew him years ago, in 
C ." 

*' Oh, then it must have been be- 
fore he married, for we have 
lived at ' The Oaks ' as long as I 
can remember." 

*^ And is your father quite well? 
And your mother ? " 

A shade passed for a moment 
over the young man's bright face. 
" Ah ! you did not hear it of course," 


The Shadow on the WaU. 


he said. ''Mj poor mother died 
just this time four years." 

^^ So long ago P I never heard it. 
I heg your pardon, but somehovr it 
never occurred to me that she could 
be dead." 

"She died «at Madeira. She 
went there to please my father, but 
she always said there was no hope. 
He is only just beginning to get over 
her loss now. I never saw so 
attached a couple." 

"And your sisters, how many 
have you ? " 

" Three, two married, and the 
youngest, Eleanor, my father's fa- 
vourite, is engaged; but she does 
not like to leave iiim I think.*' 

" Have you a sister called 
Eleanor P It was not your mother's 

"No, my eldest sister is called 
Caroline after her mother, but isn't 
Eleanor a pretty name ? I think 
my father had a favourite sister or 
cousin called Eleanor. Our Nell 
was called after some one I know. 
I have photographs of my father 
and mother here,'* he added, un- 
fastening a locket from his guard 
chain, " if you would care to see 

** Oh, thank you, I should, very 

He touched the spring, as he gave 
her the locket, and she saw her old 
friend looking just the same as 
when she had last seen him. The 
picture of Mrs. Yaughan was 
beautifully coloured, and Miss 
Kussel saw at once from whom the 
son had inherited his beautiful 
mouth and teeth. "I never saw 
your mother but twice, when you 
were quite a child. You are like 
her, but you have a way of saying 
little things so like your father. 
Will you tell him, please, that you 
have met me — I dare say he re- 
members me — and that I was glad 
to hear he was well." 

And then Harry felt that it was 
time for him to go, and he was just 

takinff up his hat, when 'a figuM' 
camebounding through the window, 
and Rachel Scott, dressed in a print 
dress, and with her bright hair care- 
lessly arranged, threw herself pant- 
ing, and breathless upon the ground 
beside Miss Russel's chair. Her 
back was towards Vaugban, but he 
could see plainly enough, a long 
rent in the cotton gown. 

"Oh, Granny!" she cried, "I 
came through the fields as you told 
me, and I'm all torn ! Look here; 
won*t aunt Conway scold ? " She 
turned to find the damages, and of 
course found Yaughan instead. 
Her blush was most becoming, but 
Harry saw that it was caused by 
surprise and pleasure at meeting him. 
There was not a particle of chagrin 
at being seen by bim in a torn 
cotton gown, and with untidy hair. 
Indeed she did not appear nearly so 
shy as she had been the day before. 

"I am surprised you know me 
to-day either," she said, giving him 
her hand, covered with a gardening 
glove of rough leather. ''Miss 
Bussel told me when I came to see 
her, now that I have grown up, that 
I must find a way across the fields^ 
and so I did to-day, and look at my 
poor dress ! and a dog fiew at me, 
and I was frightened. Do, Granny, 
give me a needle and thread ; what 
will aunt Conway say if I go back 
to her in this state P" 

So she got the needle and thread, 
and Harry still sat on watching her 
as she worked. '' I find I am all 
wrong about you two," he said, 

Sresently. *• I thought you were 
liss Bussel's niece. Miss Scott, and 
that you lived here." 

*• Did you P how funny !" said 
Kachel. " I wish you were right, 
for then I need not climb hedges 
and ditches to get here. But you 
have not asked me what I came for 
to-day, Granny. I suppose you 
have got an invitation to the croquet 
party at the Palace on Thursday ; 
aunt Conway won't come, and 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


I want to know if you will take 


*' With pleasare, dear. Indeed 
I fully expect that I shall have to 
chaperon vou everywhere this wia- 

'^ Does the Palace patronize the* 
Barracks ?" asked Harry. " I am 
awfully fond of croquet, and I hear 
the Misses Bishop — what are thoir 
names by the way ? — are such nice 

•* Oh, you are sure to be asked," 
cried Kachel. '' They always have the 
officers. The Bishop is a very jolly 
old man — ^you need not look at me, 
Granny, he i« a jolly old man if he 
were twenty bishops ! There, I 
have done, thank goodness. And 
now I must run away, or aunt 
Conway will be scouring the country 
for me ; she thinks the road much 
safer than the fields,'* she added, 
with a slight glance at Miss Bussel. 

" I must go, too," said Vaughan, 
*^ I have really paid a most uucon- 
Bcionable visit; but I hope Miss 
Bussel, as you are such an old 
friend of my father's that you will 
allow me to see- you sometimes. 
By-and-bye I shall ask you to let 
me try your beautiful piauo. I am 
mad about music." 

The cunning 'fellow remembered 
having heard Miss Scott say that 
music was the only accomplishment 
she cared to learn at school, and he 
thought it was just possible that 
she might sometimes practise on 
her friend's piano. 

'' I shall be delighted to see you 
whenever you like to come," re- 
turued Miss Bussel, warmly ; " any 
evening that you feel an old woman's 
company — "he smiled when she 
called herself an old woman, and 
Bachel said, *' nonsense, Granny ! " 
— ** will not bore you, you might 
come and play for me." 

Bachel had a vague idea that she 
might perhaps in some way take 
part in these musical evening^i, but 
the croquet party at the Palace was 

of first importance in her mind just 
then, and while Miss Bussel and 
Yaughan were talking, she was 
hoping that her white muslin would 
not look as if it had been worn 
before, and thinking that she must 
coax her aunt to get her a new hat. 
Then she said g(A)d-bye, and 
Harry said good bye, and they 
went down the avenue together, the 
latter delighted at his good fortune, 
aud the former secretly hoping that 
some of her young lady acquuin- 
tances would happen to be passing 
as she came out of the Lodge gates. 
But there was no one in sight, so 
she lost her little triumph. 

•' I am going this way," she 
said, pointing to a road which led 
away from the town ; ** good-bye." 

" But I om going thi^ way too," 
Vaughan replied ; " and if you will 
allow mo, I shall take care that you 
are not frighteued by any big dogs, 
and that you do not tear your dress 
again. There is nothing I enjoy 
so much as a real country walk." 

Bachel felt sure that she ought 
to say "No;" but when she ar- 
gued the point with herself after- 
wards, she decided that Mr. 
Vaughan had a perfect right to 
walk where he pleased. And so 
he had, I suppose. 

** I wish she had staved at school 
for another year, and I wish she 
were not so pretty now that she is 
at homo, or that I could help 
loving her," said Miss Bussel, as 
she stood watching her two visitors 
until they were quite out of sight ; 
"and there is no use in warning 
her that perhaps that young man 
will only get up a flirtation with 
her just to amuse himself. It 
would spoil that pretty childlike 
manner of hers, which is one of 
her greatest charms. And suppos- 
ing the boy w^ere really to fall in 
love with her ? But it would bo 
time enough for hiiu to marry these 

ton years Let me think — he is 

about three or four-and-twenty 


Tlie Shadow on the Walk 


now, and I am sure his father 
would not consider my pretty 
Bachel a suitable match for him. 
I hope he will not be silly enough 
to fall in loYe with the child, and 
yet it would be better than an idle 
flirtation — better for her, at least, 

f>oor little thing. He does not 
ook like a man who would trifle 
with n girPs affections. He must 
be true with that smile, and those 
eyes! How strange that I never 
heard his mother was dead: Poor 
Henry ! how long ago it is since 
we met." 

Yes; it was a very long time; 
but the firelight of the past burns 
brightly for some — I suppose weak- 
minded — people, and Miss Bussel 
had every chink ia her memory 
lighted up by it that afternoon, 
and I very much doubt whether the 
young people who had just left her, 
and whose life we might say was all 
future, were happier than she whose 
life we might say was all past. 

Miss Eussel had ppoken truly 
when she said that Mr. Yaughan, 
of The Oaks, would not be likely 
to consider Rachel Scott a suitable 
match for his only son. She was 
of an excellent family by her 
mother's side ; but by her father's, 
a nobody. He was a music- master 
and a public singer ; a man whose 
talents were not of a very high 
order, but who was, nevertheless, 
able to make a fair livelihood by 
his profession. One of his pupils, 
when he was quite a young man, 
was Miss Ada Conway, a pretty 
silly romantic little thing, who for- 
got as she listened to the sweet 
tenor voice of her master, and 
looked into his soft dreamy blue- 
grey eyes, that the blood of all the 
Gonways ran in her veins, and that 
he wass only Luigi Scotelli — his real 
name was Lewis Scott— the music- 

The result was an elopement — 
estrangement from her family — a 
considerable falling off of his aris- 

tocratic pupils — atruggles to keep 
up appearances on miserable means, 
under which the poor fragile, deli- 
cately reared wife sank, leaving the 
heartbroken husband with two little 
girls. Bachel, the youngest, was 
taken possession of by her mother's 
family, or rather by a grim elder 
sister of her mother 'i9, and poor 
Scotelli was left to toil on as nest 
he could. After some time things 
began to look brighter with him, 
and so the years passed on* 
Bachel grew up as we have seen 
her, and her sister grew up too, 
and took her place among the 
workers with her father. 

Miss Conway brought up her 
niece to the best of her ability, and 
sent her to an admirable school; 
but she would have totally ruined 
the girl during her holidays by 
mismanagement, if Miss Bussel haa 
not done her best — ^and her best 
was a good deal — to counteract the 
old lady*8 influence. The result 
was that Bachel loved her kind 
friend with all her heart, and gave 
only respect and obedience to her 

The existence of Bachel'd rare 
musical talent had for a long time 
been a bone of contention between 
the aunt and the niece. The girl 
loved music passionately, and would 
fain have cultivated her really 
splendid voice to the utmost. Miss 
Conway, who considered the gift 
of song as a disgraceful inheritance 
from the music-master, only con- 
sented at last that her niece should 
have any instruction in the art she 
loved so enthusiastically, when 
Bachel positively refused to open 
a book unless she was allowed to 
have lessons in both singing and 

80 she came home '* for good,'* as 
it is called, having had the advan- 
tage of instruction from the best 
masters, and even her aunt was. 
obliged to admit, as she listened to 
Bachel's singing, that she might 


The Shadow m the Wall. 


have inherited a more despicable 
gifb from poor Scotelli than her 
glorious and now well trained voice. 

**I say, Harry, old fellow I 
where are your wits wool-gather- 
ing to-night ? You have twice had 
the fall of the trick, and trumped 
my king ! " 

Yaughan and three of his brother 
officers were enjoying a " quiet rub- 
ber" in Harry's room. They 
almost always adjourned to his 
room after ''mess,' for it was by 
far the most comfortable in the 
barracks. Indeed, Harry's epi- 
curean tastes were quite a proverb 
in the regiment. There were three 
or four men present besides the 
whist party, all of them with 
cirgars in their mouths, chatting 
together in a lazy desultory man- 

"There!" cried Harry, "you 
needn't grumble; we've won the 
odd trick, and the third rubber, and 
I'm tired." 

•'After your long walk, I sup- 
pose," said the first speaker, gather- 
ing up the cards and shuffling them 
with rapid fingers ; ** how many 
miles was it across country ? Out 
with it, my boy ! " 

" Out with what ? " said Harry, 
looking very innocent. '* I don't 
know what you're up to. You're 
always coming out with some tre- 
mendous thing." 

** Oh, yes ; I've no doubt you'll 
take the injured innocent dodge ! 
But I saw you — ^both ; and an un- 
commonly neat pair of ancles she 
showed at that stile that she made 
you get over first. But I wouldn't 
let her wear her hair in a net, if I 
were vou ! " 

" Why, where the devil were 
you, man ? " cried Harry at last. 
^' It seems to me that a fellow can't 
go to the length of his nose with- 
out being seen." 

"Where you wouM have seen 
OS, if you hadn't been too busy." 

« XJs— who's us ? " 

*' Me and Chambers," replied the 
other, not more entirely regardless 
of grammar than are hundreds of 
his contemporaries, both in and out 
of her Majesty's service. '^ I say, 
is it a case of ' my pretty girl 
milking her cow,' or did papa call 
upon you, like an old trump, as of 
course, he is P It's just like your 
confounded luck ! " 

" Vaughan's always in luck," 
drawled out a sleepy voice from an 
arm-chair ; " I bet a hundred to 
one that half the women in W 
are over head and ears in love with 
him before three months. I'm sure 
I don't know how he does it. It 
must be his teeth; they're A 1, 
you know." 

"You needn't talk, Franklin," 
returned Yaughan, laughing ; *' you 
know you were obliged to buy a 
wig before we left Manchester; 
you had given away all your hair 
in locks; it's only just beginning 
to grow." 

" Ay 1 but ifou never joined at 
Manchester until just the week be- 
fore we lefl, so that accounts for 
my hairless condition. I used to 
tell the ' darlings ' what a destroy- 
ing angel you were, and only the 
route had come just as your leave 
was out, I jntended to have some 
placards posted up, with ' Yaughan 
IS coming ! ' in large letters, like 
those conjuring fellows you know! " 

" I hope the aborigines of W 

know how blest they are in having 
got the — th to enliven their 
stufiy old town," said a dark elderly 
man, who had been one of the 
whist party. " It seems to me to 
be a precious slow place. I saw an 
invitation in the ante-room this 
afternoon ; did any of the assem- 
bled multitude read it p " 

" Oh, it's for the croquet party 
at the Palace on Thursday," cried 
Yaughan; ''the Bishop's people, 
you know. I hear the girls are 
awfully nice ! " 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


"But the old boy, himself-* 
shan't we have to kiss his toe, or 
Bomethiug, when we go in P '* asked 
Franklin. ^ I vote we ask him to 
let one of the girls stand proxy. 
Thosp are the Palace people who 
sit in the big pew, with the mitre 
over it, in the Cathedral. Oue of 
the girls is rather a pretty little 
thing, with light frizzy hair, and a 
snub nose. I think she's smitten 
with me ; I caught her looking at 
at me ever so many times last Sun- 
day, instead of saying her prayers." 

" If you had been saying yours, 
you could not have seen her/* 
growled Major Howard, the dark 
elderly man. *• But didn't I hear 
some one say that Harry had been 
seen helping a petticoat over a 
Btile ? That's sharp practice, con- 
sidering that he only joined the day 
before yesterday — would you mind 
telling us all about it, Yaughan? 
I'll promise for one not to interfere 
with your amusement." 

"You are very kind," replied 
Harry, grimly ; *• but I don't think 
you'll get the opportunity. I say, 
who's for pool or billiards ? You 
cleaned me out last night, Franklin, 
old fellow, and I want my revenge." 

So, while Harry, with his coat 
off, was trying to take " a life off 
red," Bachel Scott was fast asleep, 
and probably dreaming of the com- 
ing Thursday. 


"Touch not the nettle lest it should sting 
thee." Old Sono. 

" What a glorious day it is," cried 
Itachel, as she sprang lightly into 
Miss Russel's brougham to be 
driven with her to the Palace. " I 
was terribly afraid this morning 
that it was going to be wet." 

The girl was looking so bright 
and pretty, with her hair drawn 
back over her little ears, and dressed 
in a moderate chignon behind, and 

with a snood of blae ribbon tied in 
a coquettish bow at one side. The 
white dress had been smoothed out, 
and looked as crisp as possible, and 
there was a blue ribbon to match 
the snood, about her rounded waist, 
while a broad-leaved Leghorn hat, 
simply trimmed with black velvet, 
replaced the fast little ^' sailor " in 
which she was wont to appear. Al- 
together she looked charming, and 
she felt charming too, which goes a 
long way in making people be what 
they seem, 

" Was it not nice of aunt Con- 
way to give me this new hat ? '* 
she said. *' I really think she is be- 
ginning to get fond of me ! But I 
know what it is all about," she 
added, laughing; " the Bishop's new 
curate paid us two visits within a 
week, and I know she thinks he has 
fallen in love with me ! " 

''And supposing he has been 
weak enough to do so," said Miss 
Eussel, with a fond look at the 
bright happy face beside her, 
''curates are not generally consi- 
dered prizes, are they ? " 

'* Oh^ but Mr. Kuthven is a prize 
curate ! His father is a great 
* swell,' and very rich, they say. 
Only fancy, aunt Conway has been 
making me learn Handel, because 
St« James, as I call him — his name 
is James — is mad about music. He 
doesn't look musical ; but Mr. 
Yaughan does. Don't you think he 
has a singing face, Granny ? " 

" How do you intend to manage 
between him and the curate?" 
asked Miss Bussel, slily. ''It is a 
regular case of * sword and gown.' " 

" I know which I like best,'* 
laughed Bachel. "But here we 
are at last, and not the first to arrive 
either. Oh how nice the girls look ! 
And Nanette has a hat like mine." 

There were a great many people 
scattered over the pretty grounds, 
which, partly shadowed by the old 
Cathedral, were attached to the 
Episcopal Palace, but the croquet 


The Shadow on the Watt. 


liad not, i^roperly speaking, begun. 
Some of the young ladies and gen- 
tlemen were walking about with 
mallets in their hands, and others 
stood in groups at the starting 
sticks, but no one thought of be- 
ginning to play, for " the officers " 
had not yet made their appearance. 
But the Misses Bishop were begin- 
ning to fear that they could not be 
waited for much longer. 

Miss Bussel and Bachel made 
their way to where Mrs. Bishop sat 
with the Dean's wife beside her. 
They were not very fond of each 
other, those two, but somehow they 
always got together. The Bishop 
was standing near his wife, evidently 
talking " shop " to a young man 
with a high, black waistcoat, and a 
snowy tie above it. 

"St. James," whispered Bachel 
to her companion as they came up. 
" He is High Church, you know, 
and a great pet of the Bishop's.'* 

But the Bishop's pet did not 
remain talking to the Bishop, when 
he saw who had stopped at Mrs. 
Bishop's cliair. He came forward 
at once, shook hands with Bachel, 
and was introduced to Miss Bussel. 

Then seeing no good reason why 
he should not have a pretty girl for 
his partner at the match of croquet 
which was at last being formed, he 
asked Bachel if she would play, and 
Bachel said " with pleasure," al- 
though she wished Vaughan had 
arrived in time to ask her first. 

"He is such a superior young 
man," said Mrs. Bishop, confiden- 
tially, to Mrs. Dean and Miss 
Bussel, when Mr. Buthven was out 
of hearing. " The Bishop considers 
himself tnosd ifortunate to get him 
into the diocese. His father is 
one of the richest commoners in 
shire, and his family are charm- 
ing. We saw a great deal of them 
in London tliis season" — her ** sea- 
son " in London wns the one great 
gun in Mrs. Bishop's battery, and 
she was always firing it off — " and he 

went about with us everywhere.'" 
She did not add her belief that M.r. 
Buthven had been apparently 
greatly "taken" with her eldest 
daughter, or her hope that he would 
beg^n where he leil off, now that 
they were all settled at W— . 

It was not a promising sign, cer^ ' 
tainly, his having walked away with 
pretty Bachel Scott; but when Mrs. 
Bishop remembered the many" quiet 
evenings " she intended to ask him 
to spend with "just themselves," she 
was not uneasy. 

Meanwhile, the croquet began in 
real earnest. Miss Bishop, other- 
wise Miss Bokeby, and her partner 
— a very young ensign who had not 
waited for his brother officers, but 
had arrived at the Palace punctually 
at three o'clock, and had expiated 
his offence by an hour's examina- 
tion of the photographic albums in 
the lonely" drawing-room — played 
against the curate and his at one 
set of hoops. Miss Bokeby felt a 
little aggrieved at the curate's de- 
sertion, especially as she could not 
help remembering certain little pas- 
sages of a decidedly tender nature, 
which had passed between them in 
London. He really had been very 
attentive in escorting her to ora- 
torios, and flower shows, so I fear 
that curates are not more constaut 
than other men. But she was a 
good-natured girl, and when she 
too remembered " quiet evenings " 
with "just ourselves," she cherished 
no anger against Bachel, who was 
chatting, and laughing gaily, and 
forgetting that there was such a 
man as Vaughan in the world, until 
looking up suddenly to ask Mr. 
Buthven what she should do next, 
she saw Harry, with three or four 
of iiis brother officers, standing at a 
little distance watching her. She 
caught his eyes, smiled, and bowed. 

"Is that'^rr," asked Franklin, 
when he saw Vaughan take off his 
haj;. " So she's not a rosy-cheeked 
rustic, but an accredited member of 


The Shadow an the WaU. 


the ecderiaBtical set. I aaj, Harrj, 
old fellow, I would not let that 
sky pilot have a walk over if I were 
you. I think he looks spooney al- 
ready. By Jove, if I'm ever in 
Parliament, which is not likely, I'll 
bring in a bill for the suppression 
of curates ; they marry all the 
pretty women and they are such 
awful prigs ! " 

" He's no prig," replied Harry, 
and it was very magnanimous of 
him to say so much in Mr. Ruthven's 
&vour, for he was anything but 
pleased at the way in which the 
young clergyman was looking at 
Bachel just at the moment. '^I 
know him very well, he was at Ox- 
ford with me, and he is a capital 
fellow ; I'll go and speak to him. I 
say, you don't remember me, Buth« 
ven," he added, ^oing up to where 
the curate and Rachel stood chat- 
ting together, their turn being over 
for the present — "Vauglian, of 
Magdalen, — many a pleasant day 
we've had together." 

** Ah, Yaughan I to be sure I re- 
member you, I'm very glad to see 
you, old fellow. What brings you 

to W ? Oh 1 you're in the 

— ^th, I suppose. And how are your 
sisters ? I remember them all at 
the Commemoration the year you 
left. What jolly days we had then ! 
I'm surprised you knew me." 

"Oh, I knew you at once, in spite of 
that ponderious beard" — ponderious 
was a way the — th had invented of 
pronouncing ''ponderous," and they 
used the coinage upon all occasions 
without caring whether they were 
understood or not. *' Miss Scott, do 
you approve of clergymen wearing 

*^ I never thought much about it," 
said Rachel. " I believe it's good for 
the throat, or something, is it not, 
Mr. Ruthven ? " 

" Oh, yes, it is a famous thing 
for our throats," replied Mr. Ruth- 
ven — ** My turn, did you say, Miss 
Bokeby t I'm ready," and away he 

went to find his ball, and Yaughan, 
and Rachel, were left together. 

*' Of course you delist in cro- 
quet. Miss Scott ? All young ladiea 
do," Harry began. "Indeed, I 
don't know what you all did before 
it was invented." 

" It's older than I am, so I don't 
know," answered Rachel, pertly. 
" Oh, Mr. Ruthven ! not there if 
you please, you'll ruin everything." 
And she hurried away to prevent 
the curate from sending a ball in 
a wrong direction. 

Harry felt aggrieved, and walked 
away to find his hostess, and with 
her he found Miss Russel, and she 
introduced him to some pretty g^ls, 
and he presently began to enjoy 
himself accordingly, although that 
'' little Scott girlj" as he called Ra- 
chel, had thrown him over for the 

But the curate was not Harry's 
only rival that day. When the 
match of croquet was over, and 
Rachel was standing discussing the 
merits of the game with the other 
players, she was conscious that a 
pair of dark brown, melancholy 
eyes were fixed upon her with a 
glance of evident admiration. The 
owner of the eyes was a handsome 
man of about three or four-and- 
thirty, a really handsome man with 
the most perfect features that could 
well be imagined; he had a tall, 
slight figure, and he was remarkably 
well dressed, and he had, as Rachd 
discovered, soon after, a low in- 
sinuating voice. Altogether he was 
a most dangerous creature, far more 
dangerous,in my opinion,than Harry 
Yaughan; for instead of Harrys 
bright frank manner, he had a 
dreamy and melancholy way of 
speaking, which immediately gave 
the impression that there was ahoj[>e- 
less bhght of some kind upon him. 
Of course that manner of his waa 
successful only with women ; men 
saw through it at once, and laughed 
at it for a clever'' dodge,"but women 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


began by pitying him, and ended by 
— well, they generally ended by 
falling in love with him, which was 
to be regretted, for be did not fall 
in love with them in return. 

Besides his many fascinations of 
person and manner, he had position, 
and every one knows what a trump 
card position is. He was the Hon. 
Reginald Fairfax, eldest son of Lord 
Wimburne, of Wimburne Priory, 

near W , one of the oldest and 

wealthiest families in the shire. A 
good catch in every sense of the 
word, and as such of course, cares- 
sed and feted and made mucli of; 
all which attentions, be received in 
the most condescending manner, 
just as if he considered them sim- 
ply his due. And now, having 
" done" the London season, having 
flirted openly with " fast " Lady 
Sarah in the park, and at the Opera, 
and having gazed with those tender 
beseeching eyes of his at gentle Lady 
Lucy across the breadth of a crowded 
ballroom, until she blushed, and 
trembled with a vague pleasure, he 
bad come down to rus^ticato at 
AVimbume, and not having any- 
thing particular to do, he thought a 
flirtation with pretty innocent little 
Bachel Scott would be a very charm- 
ing pastime indeed. 

It would have been all very well, 
if languishing glances and soft 
words to highborn beauties were 
the only sins which could be laid 
to the charge of Mr. Fairfax ; but 
there was another and a heavier 
one. During his gallop in the ride 
every morning during the summer, 
which was just now over, he used to 
see a pretty little figure hurrying 
along, always at the same hour, and 
always in the same direction. The 
little figure was poorly, but neatly 
dressed, a governess, evidently, on 
her way to her daily routine of hard 

Mr. Fairfax after a while began 
to watch for her, and he would 
have given a great deal for an ex- 

cuse to speak to her. He more 
than once thought of pretending to 
ride over her at a crossing, that ho 
might be obliged to stop, and beg 
her pardon. But fortune favoured 
him, as she often does favour such 
men as he. Just as ho was passing 
her one day — perhaps the admiring 
gaze which the girl caught from 
those dark melancholy brown eyes, 
was too much for her — she let fall 
a roll of music which she was 
carrying, and he sprang from his 
horde and picked it up, literally be- 
fore she could Htoop for it herself. 
Of course she had to thank him, and 
for the first time, he got a satis- 
factory view of the pretty young 
face, with its full hazel eyes, and 
its framework of soft brown hair ; 
and, equally of course, he did not 
remount his '* prancing steed '* — the 
Park hack was a *' prancing steed " 
to the foolish girl, whose ideas were 
all borrowed from third-rate novels 
— but walked by her side, talking, 
she thought as the " Oiaour," or 
the '* Corsair " would have talked, 
until they reached a point beyond 
which, for cogent reasons, he did 
not choose to go ; and then he shook 
hands, and he held hers in its shabby, 
but well-fitting glove, while he as- 
sured her that his slight service 
was more than ' repaid by the 
pleasure of her acquaintance, and 
she believed him, and the melancholy 
brown eyes came between her and 
the dull routine with her pupils, 
on that day, and for many a day 

I am sorry to have to tell it, but 
it was in the end the saddest ver- 
sion of the old old story. She 
was not ill-principled, poor girl^ 
she was only very weak, and fairly 
bewitched by the tempter with the 
dark brown eyes. It was very 
pleasant for him to see the soft light 
coming into her face at his approach, 
and to watch how, one by one, her 
doubts and scruples vanished be- 
neath his sophistries, and well, 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


at length the ranks of daily 
goYemesses were thinned by one, 
and that one under the name of 
Mni. Yilliers, took possession of a 
pretty villa at Sichmond. 

Mrs. Yilliers knew nothing what- 
ever about Seginald, except that 
he was handsome rich generous, 
and apparently devoted to her. 
She believed that Yilliers was 
his name, and she firmly believed 
him when he swore that he would 
marry her when he was his own 

And now you know more about 
Mr. Fairfax than did any of tiie 
Bishop's guests — I mean the lady 
guests — to whom he, Mr. Fairfax, 
made himself so agreeable that 
August afternoon. But Bachcl 
Scott had attracted him, and to 
Bachel Scott he must be introduced. 

But he did not rashly commit 
himself by asking any one " who 
that pretty girl was ? " He merely 
sauntered up to the second Miss 
Bokeby, who was not playing 
croquet, and asked, ''who the young 
lady was, who seemed bent upon 
roqueting — didn't they* call that 
knocking of the balls about ro- 
queting? — everybody so unmerci- 
fully ; " and when he heard the 
name, Scott, he remembered a fact 
which would almost give him the 
claim of old acquaintanceship with 
the girl whom he admired. Her 
aunt, Miss Conway, and his mother 
were very old and intimate friends, 
and as a child Bachel had often 
spent a day at Wimbume Priory 
with his sisters. So by-and-by he 
went up to her, took off his hat, 
and claimed acquaintance with her 
in tlie most graceful manner, and 
Bachel, pleased, and flattered at 
the goodness of his memory, blushed 
very prettily, and felt quite penitent 
at the badness of her own, when 
Mr. Fairfax told her how well he 
remembered the happy days they 
had all spent together as children. 
Then he must find his mother and 

sisters. They had all been abroad 
for so long, that they were almost 

strangers inW , but he hoped 

they would all be very intimate 
now. So Lady Wimbume and the 
girls were found, and the former, a 
good-natured kind-hearted woman, 
kissed Bachel at once, and told her 
that she was charmed to see her, 
and the girls shook hands with her, 
and wondered how it was that she 
was so pretty, and stylish looking 
when she had always lived in the 

With great satisfaction to himself 
Mr. Fairfax would, if possible, have 
induced Bachel to forego any more 
croquet that afternoon, and to stroll 
with him instead, up and down one 
of the shady walks which abounded 
in the Palace pleasure grounds, but, 
Bachel, not caring for a tete-a-tite 
with a man with whom she was not 
yet quite at her ease, said she was 
not in the least tired of croquet, and 
just at the moment Harry Yaughan 
came up and asked her to plav with 
him. She hesitated, but j^airfax 
did not. Hehated croquet mortally, 
but he had no idea of seeing the 
girl whom he had singled out for 
his own special amusement, carried 
off by that " tremendous young 
warrior," as lie mentally styled 
Yaughan, so he said — 

'* Miss Scott has honoured me by 
selecting me for her partner," and 
giving Bachel his arm, he turned to 
the croquet ground, leaving Harry 
very well inclined to knock him 

"Your young Hercules looks 
injured,*' Beginald continued, with 
a scarcely perceptible pressure of 
the little grey gloved hand upon his 
arm, " but I think I can endure 
even his enmity rather than give 
you up." 

" I suppose he did not think you 
looked like a croquet player," 
Bachel returned, feeling rather ag- 
grieved on Yaughan's account, but 
wonderfully flattered upon her own. 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


••Which ball will you have? I 
have got white." 

*^ I shall have blue. I like blue 
in everjthinff," he said, looking into 
Bachers viofet eyes with a wistful 
melancholy glance, which made her 
long to ask him why he looked so 
sad. And so it went on, and by the 
time the game was finished, Hachel 
no longer made any objection to 
walk up and down one of the shady 
walks with her partner, and presently 
they sat down to rest upon one of 
the rustic seats out of sight of 
those dreadfully energetic people, 
as he called the apparently, inde- 
fatigable croquet players. 

There was always music at the 
Palace after the " high tea," which 
followed the croquet on the lawn, 
80 when the party oame out of the 
dining-room, having partaken of 
the good things provided for them, 
the Misses Bokeby sat down to the 
grand piano, and performed an 
Italian duet. It is very much to be 
hoped that none of the good church- 
men present understood the soft 
Southern tongue, or they must have 
. been horrified at the strong language 
that issued from the lips of the 
fair vocalists ; but as Miss Betty 
Fudge says, *' Things do not sound 
half BO naughty in French." 

Then Mr. Kuthven sat down, and 
sang, '' Booked in the Cradle of the 
Deep," and Miss Bokeby as she 
looked at, and listened to him, again 
thought of certain passages which 
had taken place in London, and felt 
a thrill of pleasure. I hope there 
is nothing wrong in saying this. 
Why should not bishops' daughters 
feel happy, when handsome young 
men wno have spoken soft words to 
them, sing sweet songs? 

Bachel, who was sitting rather 
away from the group* round the 
piano, listening with intense pleasure 
to every note, was next called upon, 
and she obeyed the call at once. 
The Bong she chose was Schubert's 
exquisite '' Passing Bell," which she 

sang and played as she alone, in that 
room, could have done. When the 
first notes of her ^magnificent voice 
were heard, every other voice be- 
came mute, while many actually 
held their breath to listen ; and when 
she ceased, and the last chords were 
dying away, there was still silence 
for a moment, then rapturous ap- 

Poor Bachel was almost over- 
powered. She had forgotten her 
audience altogether, and now they 
were crowding about her, begging 
for just one more. 

" What shall I sing? " she asked, 
half laughing at their importunity. 

•' Anything you please," they said. 

"Will you sing something to 
please me ? " said a voice she had 
missed in the general approbation, 
and Fairfax placed a book upon the 
desk before her. " I cannot even 
try to tell you now what I think of 
your song," he whispered, as he 
fumbled very unnecessarily with the 
little brass hooks which kept the 
leaves of the music steady. 

The song he had selected was 
Moore's " Last Bose of Summer," 
and if Bachel's rich voice and 
perfect taste had done justice to the 
difficult German muuic, her ren- 
dering of the simple Irish melody 
was absolute perfection. 

When she rose from the piano, 
blushing and confused with the 
praises which were lavished upon 
her, Fairfax ofiered her his arm 
to lead her back to her seat, or 
to a Peat rather, for he took her 
quite to the other end of the long 
drawing-room, and then more duets, 
and more solos followed, and no one, 
except perhaps Miss Bussel, re- 
marked that Fairfax drew a low 
chair to Bachel's side, and remained 
talking to her for the rest of the 

Yes, and he talked to her as no 
man had ever talked to her before, and 
ever and anon the dark melancholy 
eyes rested upon her face, as though 


The Shadow on the WaXL 


ihey were world-wearj, and that 
to look at her was peace. He 
talked to her of music, and praised 
her Yoice and her singing with the 
most subtle flattery ; then he 
drew her on to speak of herself, 
and listened with profound atten- 
tion to her innocent chatter about 
her school days, and her school 
friends. Then he spoke of himself, 
told her of his life — it was a mere 
fiincy sketch, of course, — which he 
called '' vapid and aimless," and when 
he had maundered on for a long time, 
he suddenly pulled up, wondering 
why he had been tempted to tell to 
her what he had never cared to tell 
to any one before! It must be because 
she had been his little child friend 
long ago, and he hoped she would 
be his woman friend now. " Would 
she take pity on him sometimes and 
* charm away the evil spirit ' by 
singing ? *' And Eachel allowed 
him to take her little hand, and 
pitied him from the bottom of her 
foolish loving; heart, for having an 
" evil spirit," and it never occurred 
to her that the demon might be a 
myth, nor did she hear Vaughau 
singing in a sweet well-trained tenor, 
to his own accompaniment, ''When 
other lips, and other hearts.*' 

And then it was time to go away, 
and Eachel wished, as so many of 
us have wished before her turn 
came, that pleasant days would never 
end, and as Fairfax drove back to 
Wimburne Priory with his mother 
and sisters, he smiled to himself 
over the new conquest he had 


" In the court of Cupid fancies are 
Just as Talid as affidavits, 
And the vaguest illusions quite 
As much evidence, as testimony 
Taken upon oath ! *^ 

As a matter of course Eachel was 
at The Lodge the following after- 
noon to talk over tl^e croquet party. 

Not thatahe had much to say about 
her own share in it, except that she 
bad enjoyed it very much! She 
felt that she could not, even to 
Miss Eusse], tell all that Mr. Fair- 
fax had said to her. "How very 
nice he was," she thought, and " how 
much she liked that gentle kind 
manner of his! Gould he be un- 
happy about anything? She feared 
he must be, he looked so sad some- 
times. Perhaps he was in love 
with some one who did not care for 
him." But Eachel dismissed that 
idea at once — surely any one for 
whom he cared, must care for Am." 
Then she began to wonder if Lady 
Wimburne would call upon her 
aunt Conway, as she had said she 
hoped to do very soon. 

These thoughts, and many other 
thoughts of a like nature, passed 
through Miss Scott's mind as she 
sat at the piano idly getting over 
the forenoon until it was time to go 
to The Lodge. She was trying some 
songs which Mr. Fairfax had told her 
he particularly admired, and hoping 
that he would hear her sing tnem 
some day — he had such good taste 
in music! IIow she wished she 
could hear all those operas he 
spoke of — Famt and Don Giovanni; 
she must get the Jewel Song from 
Faust ; he said it would suit her 
voice admirably. 

She was looking prettier than 
Miss Eussel had ever seen her when 
slie came into the drawing-room at 
The Lodge about three o'clock, and 
told her dear old Granny that she 
had come to dine with her. " Aunt 
Conway said I might come," she 
said, **and I hope you are glad 
to see me. Granny. And, oht 
don't you wish that we were 
going: to another croquet party to- 
day r" 

Miss Eussel could not say with 
truth that she did wish it, but 
then Mr. Fairfax had not been 
making himself agreeable to her. 

'^ I was 80 dreadfully frightened 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


when tbej all began to applaud my 
flong," Bachel began, wben she liad 
taken off her hat and scarf, and 
opened her little workbag, " for just 
at first every one was so silent, I was 
•ore they did not like it." 

''And I don't think you heard 
your friend Mr. Vaughan sing at 
all," said Miss Bussel. " Indeed, I 
suspect poor Sword and poor &own 
were both forgotten." 

" Did he sing ? " cried Rachel, 
blushiug, as she remembered why 
it was she had not heard him. 

''Yes, and most beautifully. I 
like his singing better than Mr. 
£uthven*8. If I could have ven- 
tured to disturb your Ute-ci'tete 
with Mr. Fairfax, I might have got 
you back to the piano. I suppose 
you found him agreeable.*' 

'' Agreeable is no word for what 
he i8,",cried lUchel, enthusiastically, 
''he is charming! There is some- 
thing about him so— 4o — oh, so un- 
like every one." 

"And you like that! Well, I 
prefer Mr. Vaughan, although I have 
met many men like him. There is 
something — you will be shocked, 
Bachel, I know — to my mind sly 
about Mr. Fairfax. I cannot help 
thinking when I look at him, that I 
do not see the real man." 

" Beal ?" echoed Bachel, who had 
considered the Honourable Beginald 
eandour itself. "Indeed, Granny, 
yon are wrong ; he told me a great 
deal about himself last night." 

"To you, did he? And what 
did he tell you? I suppose you 
are not bound to secrecy." 

" Oh, I don't know; he told me 
little things," replied Bachel, puz- 
zledy now that the plain question 
had been put, to remember what 
Mr. Fairfax had actually told her 
of himself. "I don't think he is 
happv," she concluded, falling back 
into ner old idea. 

" Oh, ridiculous ! What in the 
world can he have to make him un- 
happy p He has everything he can 

possibly wish for. I'm afraid he is 
a little bit of a humbug, Bachel, 
and I repeat, I like Mr. Vaughan 
far better." 

" ' Talk of an angel ' " laughed 
Bachel, "there is Mr. Vaughan 
coming up the avenue." 

Miss Bussel went to the window^ 
and called to him to come across 
the flower beds. " You have leave to 
come in this way bv the window 
always, remember," she said, giving 
him her hand ; " and if you do not 
find me in this room, I am almost 
certain not to be at home — come in, 
here is Miss Scott; we have been 
talking over the croquet party yes-, 
terday. I hope you enjoyed your 
first specimen of our W festi- 

" Beyond everything ! I never 
spent so jolly a day, and all our 
fellows were deb'ghted. Such a lot 
of pretty girls; and the Bishop's 
awfully good-natured, isn't he P 
But, Miss Scott, your songs have 
been haunting me ever since. You 
won't think I am flattering you, will 
you ? when I tell you that I hav'n't 
heard such singing I don't know 
when. By Jove ! that Irish melody 
was enough to make a fool of a 

Vaughan's praise was, like him- 
self, honest ana out-spoken. Bachel 
laughed merrily. ** I shall be quite 
spoiled," she said ; " but I am very 
glad you were pleased." 

" You will think I am going to 
haunt you," Vaughan went on, 
turning to Miss Bussel, " but I had 
a long letter from my father this 
morning, with no end of messages 
to you, and I thought you would 
like to hear them. There," handins; 
her the letter, " you may read it all 
for yourself." 

" Oh, thank you ! You are very 
kind," she replied, and Vaughan 
noticed the bright glow of pleasure 
that passed over her face, as her 
eyes fell upon the familiar hand- 
writing unseen for years. " You 



The Shadow on the Wall. 


will Bee that he begs of jon to keep 
a watch upon his good-for-nothing 
son, 80 I must help you to do his 
bidding by coming here very often," 
laughed Harry. And then he left 
MissBussel to her letter, and turned 
9gain to Eachel. 

"So you wouldn't play croquet 
with me yesterday. Miss Scott P But 
indeed when I heard who your 
partner was, I felt very small at 
haying asked you. We poor mud- 
crushers— did you know the in- 
fantry were called by that pretty 
name? — have no chance beside a 
fellow like Fairfax! What jolly 
little girls his sisters are. You 
know them, of course." 

Yes, Bachel knew them, had 
known them since they were all 
children together. Did Mr. Yaughan 
know that the eldest Miss Fairfax 
was going to be married P 

" I suppose to that man who was 
with her," cried Vaughan, " that 
red-haired fellow with the glass in 
his eye? He is a swell of some 
kind no doubt. What on earth can 
she see to fancy in the creature ? 
But there is no accounting for what 
you women will do." 

" You seem rather aggrieved 
about it," said Eachel ; " but then 
there is Julia, the second girl, wait- 
ing for you. Many people think 
her prettier than Miss Fairfax." 

" I don't, she's too like her bro- 
ther," said Harry, bluntly ; " but I 
suppose I must not abuse him to 
you. Miss Scott. I shall have the 
pleasure of meeting him to-night, 
he dines with us — Hallo! what's 
this ? I hear wheels." 

•* It's the Wimbume carriage," 
said Miss Bussel from her seat in 
the window. " Pray do not go, Mr. 
Vaughan," for Harry had risen as 
she spoke. Bachel tried hard to 
look OS if she only expected, or 
hoped to see, the ladies of the Wim- 
bume family, but although she grew 
very intent upon the removal of a 
knot upon her embroidery thread, 

she could not keep back the flush 
that rose to her cheeks, nor the 
look of expectancy that brightened 
her eyes as she furtively watched 
the door. Harry saw both blush 
and look, and he felt that he actually 
hated Beginald Fairfax, as he too 
watched the door. 

''Lady Wimbume, and the 
Misses Fairfax!'* — Bustle of ma- 
tronly silk and girlish muslin, but 
no manly tread following, to the 
disappointment of one, and to the 
joy of another. 

There was more affectionate 
kissing of Bachel. The young 
ladies were really cordial to her 
to-day, for Beginald had only 
arched his eyebrows and shrugged 
his shoulders when they had praised 
her to him yesterday; so that he 
was safe, not from flirtation, for 
" Beginald always flirted," but from 
falliDg in love. 

They were expecting a houseful 
of people at the Priory the next 
week, and the object of Lady 
Wimbume's visit was to ask Miss 
Bussel to join the party. '' And I 
am on my way to ask your aunt if 
she will allow us to have the pleasure 
of your company too, dear," her 
ladyship added, turning to Bachel. 

The girl's heart gave a great 
bound of delight at the prospect, 
while in one swift moment she 
passed her whole wardrobe in re- 
view, and remembered that there 
would be dressing for dinner at the 
Priory every day. But being a 
ladylike little person, she did not 
forget to thank Lady Wimbume 
very prettily for her kind invitation, 
and then she turned to attend to 
the young ladies who were telling 
her to be sure and bring all her 

" We hope to see you, and some 
of your brother officers too, Mr. 
Yaughan," Lady Wimburne said, 
in her most gracious manner^ to 
Harry. She had heard about '' The 
Oaks" from somebody, and con- 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


sidered that althougb Yaughan was 
only a Bubaltem he might safely be 
admitted to intimacy. 

" Oh, thank you, I shall be de- 
lighted," said Harry, with a vague 
feeling of satisfaction, derived from 
the hope that his presence might 
be a check — he could not have ex- 
plained how — upon Mr. Fairfax. 
And besides, he was not by any 
means averse to a little flirtation 
upon his own part with pretty Julia 
Fairfax. It would not be too much 
to say that he had very nearly 
fallen in love with Eachel Scott, 
but still he could flirt with Julia — 
wheat and tares can grow in the 
same field. 

The invitations having been all 
given and accepted, there followed 
a good deal of pleasant chatter be- 
tween the three girls and Vaughan, 
and between Lady Wimburne, and 
Miss Eussel. Her ladyship was 
one of those good-natured motherly 
women who talk a great deal of 
light harmless gossip during the 
day without knowing it — (as Mons. 
Jourdain talked prose) — and she 
was pleased to find her girls not 
anxious to be off again, as was usual 
with them during a morning visit. 
Indeed, had Yaughan not been at 
the Lodge that afternoon, the Misses 
Fairfax would have reminded their 
mother that it was getting late, or 
have made some other equally trivial 
excuse for moving. Such little 
things are only' human nature, as 
erervone knows, and no one would 
think of blaming a pretty girl for lik- 
ing to talk to a handsome agreeable 
young man, instead of to another 
pretty girl, or to an elderly woman. 
But at last they went away, Ladv 
Wimburne promising Bachel to call 
upon Miss Conway and to arrange 
with her for the girl's visit to The 
Priory. Yaughan saw the ladies to 
their carriage, and smiled upon them 
with his handsome mouth, and his 
sparkling eyes, and then he went 
back to get his letter from Miss 

Bussel, and to see if Eachel ap- 
peared elated at the prospect of 
going to Wimburne. 

Of course she was elated, and 
why not ? What girl of only 
eighteen, who did not know how far 
expectations always exceed realities^ 
who thought that clouds were not 
only lined with silver, but were 
formed throughout of that precious 
metal, who never had had a great 
disappointment to bear, and who 
imagined that people and things 
were fully as honest and as perfect 
as she believed them to be, would 
not be delighted at the pros- 
pect of going to stay in a pleasant 
house, full of pleasant people — of 
being prettily dressed, and of being 
made much of by every one ? Yes, 
and it would be very nice indeed, 
she thought, to stay in the house 
with Mr. Fairfax. Eachel had 
often tried to picture to herself 
what that sad-eyed hero was like in 
the bosom of his family, and had 
failed ; but her thoughts went no 
farther. She never calculated, as 
ninety-nine girls out of a hundred 
would have done, upon the chances 
of "catching** Lord Wimbume's 
son and heir. 

She was talking eagerly to Miss 
Eussel when Yaughan came back, 
and if that joung gentleman had 
not been too much taken up with ad- 
miring her animated face, he would 
have, heard the ominous words, 
" Grenadine trimmed with blue." 
'* Yes, dear, we must settle all about 
it in good time," Miss Eussel made 
answer. " Mr. Yaughan, here is 
your letter, with many thanks. 
Pray tell your father when you are 
writing, that I return all his kind 
messages, and that I too hope we 
shall have the pleasure of meeting 
again some day. And now I want 
to know if you will stay and dine 
with me to-day ? Miss Scott will 
be the only other guest. I cannot 
promise you such magnificence as 

you have at your mess, but '* 



The Shadow on the Wall. 


*^ It would give me the greatest 
pleasure," iuterrupted Hany, "but 
it is our guest night, and I could 
not be absent ; however, if I can 1*11 
get away after dinner, and come up 
to jou ^or a cup of tea, and a song, 
if Miss Scott will kindly indulge 

'* And remember, you must sing 
yourself,*' said Rachel. 

" Oh yes, I'll sing if you wish it," 
be said. And he went away de- 
lighted at the prospect of the 
pleasant evening he had before him. 
And accordingly he came, and 
came very early too, considering 
that it was ''guest night" with 
the gallant — th, for he was fully 
half an hour before the ladies at 
The Lodge expected to see him, 
and he had not waited to change 
his mess jacket, and white waist- 
coat ; but then I have no doubt he 
knew the dress was becoming to 
him, and was therefore not sorry to 
have the opportuoity of appearing 
in it. Neither was he sorry, for 
that evening at least, to escape from 
the society of his brother ofacers — 
from the cutting cynicisms of 
Major Howard, and from the chaffing 
banter of Franklin, who found out 
-everything about every one, and 
who always retailed his information 
with notes and comments of his 

Beginald Fairfax was one of the 
guests, and led by him, the con- 
versation at dessert had been such 
as to disgust Yaughan, and he was 
by no means a strait-laced young 

When he came into the pretty 
drawing-room at The Lodge, and 
took in at a glance the atmosphere 
of refinement and purity that 
pervaded it, and when he saw 
JEtachers lovely face, radiant with 
youth and happiness, his blood 
boiled at the thought of what 
wretchedness contact with a man 
like Fairfax might bring upon her. 
The evening was yery quiet, but 

very pleasant, dangerously so, I fear, 
for the gallant young soldier. 
Bachel sang for him, and he sang 
for Bachel, and they san^ duets 
together, until Miss Bussel declared 
that he had no mercy upon the 
girl's voice, and shut the piano. 
And then Harry got a volume of 
Praed, and read aloud poems grave, 
and poems gay by turns, and then 
all too soon came the announcement 
that a servant had been sent for 
Miss Scott. 

But I think it is almost nn^ 
necessary to st'tj, t^at the domestic 
was allowed to walk uiscreetly in 
the background, while Yaughan 
escorted the young lady to her 
home, an arrangement which Miss 
Bussel would have prevented had 
it been in her power. But I think 
on the whole that the walk by 
moonlight gave Bachel more satis- 
faction than it gave to Yaughan. 
She enjoyed it merely as a walk by 
moonlight, a pleasant finish to a 
pleasant evening. But he would 
have been more gratified had she 
been a little less frankly at her ease 
with him ; he knew the '* weather 
signs of love," and he would have 
been glad to trace even the faintest 
outline of them in the girl's de- 
meanour towards himself. " Can it 
be possible," he thought, as he 
walked back to the barracks after 
having said goodnight to Bachel — 
" can it be possible that that fellow 
Fairfax has made such good running 
in one afternoon that I haven't a 
chance ! What a ponderiaus ass I 
am after all, to let myself be bowled 
over by a pair of violet eyes, and 
a voice — ^how well it goes with mine 
too ! And her father's a music mas- 
ter in London, Franklin says, and her 
sister a governess. How the deuce 
does that fellow find out everything? 
I never find out anything, and he is 
nearly always right. Well if he 
were a sweep, she is a lady every 
inch, and awfully distractingly 
pretty ! I wonder ia this the raal 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


thing this time. Hairy, my boy, or 
only another caae of • mock cupid,' 
as Franklin calls my love affairs. I 
shall be a better judge when I go to 
Wimbame, and see what game that 
Fairfax fellow is up to. By Jove, 
if I feel at all pokery towards him, 
I had better get more leave, and 
give him a fair field. It wouldn't 
be right to stand in the way of her 
being * My Lady !' Hallo, light in 
Howard's room. They're playing 
loo, I) suppose, like old boots ! I'll 
go to bed, I couldn't stand that 
fellow again with his goggle eyes, 
and his sugary voice." 

Of course it was a libel to say 
that Fairfax had goggle eyes ; but 
then Yaughan was jealous, and 
therefore prejudiced. 

During the week which elapsed 
between the morning he spent at 
The Lodge and the day fixed for 
the assembling of the guests at 
Wimburne Priory, Vaughan did 
not see Eachel Scott. He called 
several times at The Lodge, but 
always found Miss Bussel alone, 
and it was during one of these 
visits that he heard from her what 
rumour, in the person of Captain 
Franklin, had told him before, 
namely, that Miss Scott's father 
really was a music-master, and had 
for years been known by no other 
name than that of Scotelli — the 
poor man had Italianized himself to 
pander to the popular British pre- 
judice that no one but an Italian 
could teach music. 

Miss Bussel had a motive in 
telling the son of her old friend the 
parentage of the pretty and tho- 
roughly lady-like girl, whom he 

met in the " best set " in W , 

and whom he so evidently admired. 
But there were some facts con- 
nected with the modest household 
of the Scotellis which Miss Eussel 
did not know. She did not know 
that Scotelli himself, in addition to 
his tuition, now sang in the chorus 
of the Italian Opera, at Covent 

Garden, and that his daughter — 
Bachel's elder, and equally pretty 
sister — but what she was doing will 
be told more appropriately in an- 
other place. 

" She is pretty enough to grace 
a coronet," was Vaughan's very 
commonplace remark, when he had 
heard all Miss Bussel had to tell 
him of the girl, who, from the mo- 
ment when blushing and frightened 
at her own boldness she had given 
him his lost money at the — — 
station, had occupied a prominent 
place in his thoughts. And then 
he remembered the Viscount's coro- 
net which might perhaps be wait- 
ing her acceptance, and wondered 
if Fairfax also knew about the 

But, if known to him, the fact 
that Miss Scott's father and sister 
earned by bard work the bread 
which they ate, did not seem to 
affect Mr.* Fairfax more than it 
affected Harry himself, for when 
the latter entered the drawing- 
room at Wimburne Priory before 
dinner, when the week had passed, 
and all tho guest-chambers at the 
hospitable old mansion were full, 
the first thing he saw was Fairfax 
standing beside Bachel's chair. 
He was even leaning with one hand 
upon the back of it, as he bent over 
to whisper to her in that flatter- 
ingly confidential manner of his. 

How pretty she was looking, 
dressed in white with blue ribbons, 
so quiet with all her animation, so 
thoroughly lady-like, so perfectly 
at her ease. She did not see 
Yaughan coming into the room, 
although she had been looking for- 
ward to meeting him with great 
pleasure, for Fairfax had a way of 
what I may call ab.-'orbiug any 
woman to whom he addressed him- 
self. He claimed the attention of 
voice ear and eye, and Eachel 
would not have been what she was, 
a very pretty, and a very young 
woman, if she had not been flat- 


The Sliadow on the WaU. 


tered bj bis attentions, and bis 
undisguised admiration. But sbe 
could not tell, tbat as be talked to 
ber, and gave ber the full benefit 
of long eloquent glances from bis 
languishing eyes — Bacbel did not 
call tbem " goggle " — be was try- 
ing to remember of whom it was 
that sbe reminded bim so strongly. 

'' By Jove ! " be said, at last, as 
it flashed across bim ; but be made 
the sudden exclamation to himself. 

Mr. Fairfax being the eldest son 
of the bouse, was, of course, obliged 
to take a lady of more importance 
than Miss Scott in to dinner ; but 
he lamented over bis bard fate to 
ber in a few telling words, and then 
«aw ber conveyed by Major Howard 
without a pang. 

The young lady herself was not 
«o well pleased. In default of 
Fairfax she would have liked 
Yaughan, whom sbe regarded as 
•quite an old friend ; but there he 
was, quite at the far end of the 
table, chatting very pleasantly with 
Julia Fairfax, and sbe felt quite 
sure that she should never be able 
to talk to the roan with the grizzly 
moustache, who looked as if be 
thought ber merely a child. 

And Major Howard, having the 
power of reading character with 
h'tile more than a glance out of 
those piercing eyes of his, saw at 
once that Bacbel was not satisfied, 
and he debated with himself, while 
drinking bis soup, whether be could 
make some slight amend to ber by 
being agreeable. And whether it 
made up to her or not for her dis- 
appointment, be decided that be 
would be agreeable ; or, rather, 
that he would find out what she 
was made of. Somewhat to bis 
surprise, for he had a low opinion 
of the mental endowments of wo- 
men, and especially of pretty young 
women, he found that iiaehel could 
say a little more than **ye8 " and 
''no," and she looked so bright, and 
anghed so merrily at bis quaint 

and cynical remarks, tbat be ended 
by being quite delighted with her. 

Later in the evening, when the 
gentlemen followed the ladies to 
the di'awing-room, be sat at a small 
table, away from all the rest of the 
company, apparently engrossed by 
one of poor Leech's volumes; butin 
reality be was watching the little 
drama being played before bim. 
He made comments to himself 
somewhat after this fashion :*- 

" Ha ! I knew it* Fairfax is 
going in for the slaughter of an- 
other innocent ! What the deuce is 
Yaughan about, tbat be does not 
try what a little pluck would do, if 
be really is spooney on the girl, as 
Franklin says he is P Sbe is a nice 
little thing, an uncommonly nice 
little creature, and it is a thousand 
pities to see her philandering with 
tbat man, who hasn't as much heart 
as a spider, and, of course, she'll 
fall desperately in love with him ; 
he*s just the sort of man to go down 
with women. Idon't know why they 
like him, but they do. If I were 
to tell all tbat I know of tbat man's 
private life out here to this goodly 
company, I wonder what they would 
say r Take bis part, of course, and 
just make as much of him as they 
did before ; and there isn't one of 
those girls that wouldn't marry bim 1 
They rather like a scamp, I think. 
Suppose I were to go up and ask 
bim how Mrs. Yilliers is ? bow all 
the little Yilliers are ? Poor little 
girl ! If I bad met some one like 

you instead ," he ground bis 

teeth at that point, and was silent 
for a moment — " I might not have 
been the unbelieving dog about 
women that I am now. How 
pleased she seems — oh, yes ! she 
is blushing, and looking down. I 
thought so — no woman under 
thirty could meet that glance of 
liis unabashed. What is going to 
happen now ? Grand divertisse- 
ment ? Yaughan approaches, Fair- 
fax looks aggrieved, BiK^bel smiles 


The Shadow an the Wall. 


up at him — come, I like that; the 
game's not lost yet.'* 

It was as Howard had said. 
Fair£a and Bachel were sitting 
decidedlj t^d-tHet and Yaughan 
having grown tired of the Hon. 
Julia, went to ask. Bachel to sing* 

^ With pleasure," she said, smil* 
ing up at him. *' But if some one 
else would sing first. It is really 
formidable before so many." 

''My sisters will, I am sure," 
said PairfiEix, in his languid manner; 
**dOy Yaughan, ask them, like a 
good fellow ; if Mibs Scott begins, 
no one will venture on a note after 
her. Ah I there is Julia getting 
up, and you, Yaughan, as in duty 
bound, must go and turn over the 
leaves for her; I shall have the 
honour of taking Miss Scott to the 
piano, by-and-bye." 

Fairfax settled himself back into 
his chair, and Yaughan felt that be 
was checkmated. Bachel was really 
sorry to see how vexed he looked ; 
but she could not call him back to 
tell him so. 

** You are not angry with me, I 
hope, for taking upon myself to 
say when you were to sing P " said 
Fairfax, as the young man turned 
away. '' Of course, I know I can- 
not expect to prolong this, to me, 
too pleasant tete-d'tSu the whole 
evenmg, but " 

** I daresay you will be very glad 
to end it yourself, by-and-bye," in- 
terrupted Eachel, iu a rather blunt 
manner. '' I do not think that my 
conversation can really interest 

" If you were any other girl in 
the world, I should say you wanted 
me to compliment you," he re- 
turned ; '* no, I shall not wish to 
end this, or any other tite-d-tSu 
with which Miss Scott may honour 
me. But I must not be selfish ; I 
cannot hope to keep you always to 
myself; but you do not know how 
refreshing it is to me to meet with 
one so delightfully unspoiled as 

you are ; you have never lived in 
that world in which I am obliged 
to spend so much of mv time, so 
that you can have no idea of the 
shams which surround me at every 
step. The first moment I saw you 
I felt that you were different from 
every other woman I knew." 

Bachel laughed. 

"You do not believe me?" he 
said, reproachfully. 

'* 1 was not thinking whether I 
believe you or not. I was only 
thinking that it would not require 
a witch to see the difference be- 
tween me or any country young 
lady and one of your fine London 
belles! The very fashion of our 
dresses, the make of our boots and 
gloves " 

" The difference of which I spoke 
was of far more importance than 
the make of a dress, or of a boot,'' 
interrupted Fairfax, gently. **! 
did not suspect you of satire, Miss 
Scott. Did Major Howard give 
you a lesson during dinner ? You 
seemed to be enjoying yourself 
very much. I confess, as I escorted 
that magnificent dowager to whom 
hard fate assigned me, I thought 
— I hoped — that you would have 
considered your fate hard also." 

'•Why?" asked Bachel, really 
puzzled. She had no experience 
whatever in the ambiguous style of 
love-making into which Fairfax was 
beginning to steal. 

He sighed deeply before he re- 
plied, in a voice whose reproachful 
sadness touched Bachel just as he 
intended it to do. 

" Do not ask me why, Miss Scott, 
for I cannot tell you — ah! if I 
could hope that your own heart 
would ever supply an answer." 

Bachel felt her colour rise, and 
involuntarily she began to play 
with her watch-chaiu, that refuge 
for embarrassment with very young 


The Shadow on the WaU. 



Women not Iiaving it in their power to 
begin a conrtship, some of them fr^nently 
lend an ear where their hearts incline not. 


The foUowiDg day Eachel was up, 
and out among the flower-beds, 
before the Wimbume housemaids 
had finished their morning duties. 
Accustomed to early hours in her 
school-days, she could not stay in 
her room until the bell rang to as- 
semble the guests. I wonder who 
among the said guests would be- 
lieve that she had no object in her 
early walk, when, before she had 
been out for a quarter of an hour, 
Mr. Fairfax strolled across the 
grass towards her. 

But Eachel was truly uncon- 
scious of his presence until she 
heard his step and voice behind 
her, and then she started, as though 
she were guilty of some dreadful 
crime in being out there at all, 
and her face was one rosy flush, as 
she held out her hand to him. She 
was very angry with herself, poor 
child, for she bad a vague idea that 
somehow this fine gentleman, who 
held her hand ever so much longer 
than was necessary, and who lowered 
his voice to so soft a key when ad- 
dressing her, would put a false con- 
struction upon her blushes and con- 

But whatever his construction 
might be, he had tact enough to 
see that it would not do to go too 
fast, and perhaps frighten the bird 
before it was perfectly caught and 
caged ; so instead of beginning 
where he had left off the evening 
before, he began to chat to her 
about the beauty of the morning — 
'' He did so much enjoy a saunter 
before breakfast ; it freshened a 
fellow up for the whole day." 
About the beauty of flowers — "His 
mother was an enthusiastic gar- 
dener ! her roses had taken ever so 
many prizes; was the rose Miss 

Scott's &Y0urite flower ? " About 
the delights of country life — " H& 
wondered why people were so fond 
of London.*' Bacnel soon forgot 
her eiybarrassment, and talked awaj 
merrily enough, but not quite so 
freely as she would have talked the 
day before. She was a pleasant 
spoken little thing, not in the least 
a clever girl, you understand, but 
she had a very sweet voice, and 
what is called a *' taking manner," 
and if she sometimes made a silly 
remark, or a remark which showed 
that she was a very tyro in the 
ways of this wicked world, she was 
still charming. 

If a girl has dark violet eyes, 
with long lashes, fresh bloom on 
her rounded cheeks, rosy lips, and 
above all a pretty figure, all grace* 
ful lines and curves, men in 
general, and especially men like 
Beginald Fairfax, do not care very 
much what her mental powers may 
be. But do not imagine that 
Bachel Scott was an empty-headed 
fool ; she was no more a fool than- 
the high-bred looking roan dressed in 
grey tweed who strolled beside her 
was a hero, although she tM$ silly 
enough to think him one. 

" I wonder what every one will do 
to-day," he said at last, as having 
lounged up and down for half an 
hour, and having pulled some flowers 
for Bachel, he began to think that 
the post-bag had probably arrived, 
and that his letters and the Hmei 
were awaiting him inside. " What 
do you say to a ride. Miss Scott ? 
There are plenty of ladies' horses 
always available here, and I am 
sure we can make up a party.'* 

Bachel said a ride would be de^ 
lightful. They had turned towards 
the house by this time, and were 
crossing a closely-shaven piece of 
turf. '' This is for croquet, I sup- 
pose," she said, ** what a charming- 
ground !'* 

•* Yes, this is for croquet,'* Fair- 
fax answered, " and I have no doubt' 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


^oa will find plenty of people to 
join you in that most delightful of 

There was a sneer in his voice 
which Bachel did not like. "I 
hope so," she replied, with a spice 
of mischief ; " I love croquet.*' 

*'And if anything could make 
me like it, it would be your love 
for it," Fairfax returned, quickly. 
"Do not look incredulous," he 
added, entreatingly, *' I have begun 
to find the world a very bright one 
— lately. Pray do not darken it 
again with a frown." 

Bachel had not been frowning, 
as far as she knew, but when Eair- 
&x took that tone she was always 
silenced. They were now upon the 
haU-door steps, and raising his hat 
with an au revoir, and an eloquent 
glance, he lefb her, and she went to 
look for Miss Eussel. 

The guests in a country house 
rarely do anything in the way 
of amusing themselves before 
luncheon. They write letters ; 
they turn over books and news- 
papers, they try new music ; they 
dawdle in and out through the 
gardens and pleasure grounds; 
some of them are never seen until 
luncheon time. So it was at Wim- 
bume Priory. Fairfax read news- 
papers and wrote letters persist- 
ently after breakfast, and was not 
tempted to the drawing-room even 
by the sound of Bachel's lovely 
voice. She was practising duets 
with Julia Fairfax, much to 
Yaughan's satisfaction. 

That gallant young officer spent 
a most delightful forenoon with the 
two girls at the piano. The charm 
which Miss Scott's presence had for 
him was never so strong as when 
she was singing, and he could have 
sat for hours looking at and listen- 
ing to her. His manner to her 
was very difierent from that of 
Fairfax ; in this case the shyness 
and embarrassment wero all on the 
of the gentleman. In the first 

days of their acquaintance he had 
found plenty to say to her! now 
he often, especially if they were 
alone, found himself stammering 
like a school-boy. 

Indeed he could no longer hide 
the fact that he was, as he ex- 
pressed it, ** hit hard,'* and if Bachel 
had been what I have before said 
she was not, experienced in the ways 
of the world, she would have read 
bis secret quickly enough. As it 
wa?, she thought he was ** smitten** 
with the charms of Julia Fairfax, 
with whom he was perfect] v at his 
ease, and to whom he wnispered 
pretty little nothings, and other- 
wise flirted unmistakably. What 
would Yaughan have said had he 
known that in the depths of 
Bachel's heart, unknown even to 
herself, there was actual jealousy 
of the fair Julia? She did not 
think she cared in the very least 
to whom Harry devoted himself^ 
she was herself apparently en* 
grossed with Julia*s brother; in- 
deed she thought far more than was 
good for her about his looks and 
words. But it was one of those 
riddles in the nature feminine^ 
which can never be solved, how 
side by side with this fancy for Begi- 
nald, there could be a far stronger 
fancy for the handsome frank young 

I have no doubt some people will 
say that I am writing paradoxes, 
that I have a girl ** in love" 
with two men at the same time ; 
but I think I have stated only what 
hundreds of women will acknow- 
ledge to be the truth. I believe- 
that a very young girl can be in- 
terested, let us call it, in two men 
at the same time, especially when 
those men both admire her, and 
pay her attention ; and it would be 
a very nice question to decide 
which of the two she will come to 
caro for, as women sometimes care 
for the man whom they marry. 
Yery little will turn the scale inr 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


favour of one or the other, bat let 
the decision be once made, let the 
girl really begin to love one of her 
admirers, and she will boldly and 
strenuously deny — even to herself 
— that she had even a passing fancy 
for the other. We all know that 
women do not tell the whole truth 
in these matters. 

But half an hour before the 
luncheon bell sounded Yaughan's 
pleasure was over, for Fairfax 
sauntered into the drawing-room 
in the slow indolent manner pecu- 
liar to him, a manner which always 
made Yaughan long to shake him. 
He went up to the piano, and stood 
by Bachers side, looking very 
handsome, and very duUnffue, but 
not perhaps so thoroughly manly as 

'* Effeminate ass,** was that young 
gentleman's mental comment, ''I 
wish I could see him riding to 
hounds across a stiff country 1 I 
think if I were to put him on 
^ Sutton' those little hands of his 
would get enough to do." Sutton 
was a certain hard*pulling hunter 
of Yaughan*8, and of course those 
remarks of his owner's, albeit made 
^in to himself,' as children say, 
were very iU-natured, but being 
prompted by jealousy they must be 
excused. Fairfax, moreover, was 
fully competent to ride Sutton, or 
any other horse in Harry's stable, 
and he would, besides, have been 
perfectly well able to hold his own 
with Yaughan across any country 
in England. 

However, at present, it was more 
to the purpose that he was appa- 
rently about to win a prize which 
Yaughan was longing for, as men 
generally do long for what seems 
hard to obtain. 

It was to arrange about the 
riding party that Fairfax had come 
in, and in five minutes it was all 
settled. Yaughan was asked to 
join. At first he said *' No," but 
then he thought better of it, and 

said *' Yes, " and Julia Fair&x 
thought he relented because she 
had allowed herself to look dis- 

So the young ladies appeared at 
luncheon in their habits, and when 
the horses came round afterwards^ 
Yaughan had the immense satis- 
faction of seeing Eachel swung into 
her saddle by Fairfax, while he 
performed the same o£Sce for J-olia.* 
Miss Fairfax and her fiamee made 
up the party, and led the way, 
then followed Julia and her eava- 
lier; Miss Scott and Beginald 
brought up the rear. 

Fair£u never chose to go first, 
he liked to be able to do as he 
pleased, and it might suit him to 
walk his horse when others can^ 
tered. And it pleased him that 
afternoon to ride very slowly in- 
deed along the shady roads, and 
very close to Bachel's bridle rein, 
and it pleased him to talk to hert 
not about the weather, not about 
" Shakspeare and the muaioaL 
glasses," but about herself and 
himself, and about love and friend- 
ship, and such things. And it 
pleased him also to say a great 
many things which no man has a 
right to say, if he does not follow 
them up quickly by asking the 
woman to whom they are said to be 
his wife. 

Bachel herself said but little. Of 
course the words she heard were 
pleasant to listen to; but when 
Fairfax would fain have drawn some 
answering word, or even look firom 
her, she would not give it ; for, in 
spite of herself, a vague distrust of 
the man would steal across her. 
He saw nothing of this distrust; 
he saw only the beauty of the shy 
eyes which were so rarely raised to 
meet his own. He felt that he had 
silenced, he hoped for ever, the 
tendency she had at first shown to 
blunt the power of his significant 
words by a smart repartee. Ha 
knew that he longed, as men sm^ 


The Shadow on the WaXt. 


as he do long, for an excuse to en- 
circle that lithe figure with his 
armSy and to he aUowed to kiss 
those fresh young lips — ^a caress 
stolen unawares would have had no 
sweetness for him, it should be a 
free gift. 

Poor innocent guileless £achel ! 
She had no idea how lightly the 
man whose many fascinations were 
beginning to exercise their influence 
oyer her, held the honour of a 
woman, nor how low was bis esti- 
mate of their character. 

And how did Yaughan enjoy his 
ride? Of course it would be all 
right and proper if I were able to 
say that he was sour of speech and 
morose of temper; that he made 
no effort to be agreeable to his 

Eretty companion, but comported 
imself altogether like a bear ; but 
I cannot say it and speak the truth. 
He was not in the least like a bear ; 
be was, on the contrary, like a 
lamb, if any handsome young man 
can be said ever to resemble that 
animal, and Julia had no fault to 
find with him. 

But she was a sharp youug 
woman, and she had had a good deal 
of experience in the ways of man- 
kind, so she did not thiuk that 
Yaughan was in love with her ; she 
hoped, however, that he would be 
so before long. On the whole, I 
think it may be said that the riding 
party enjoyed themselves. 

When the ladies had been dis- 
mounted, and had gone trailing 
across the hall to change their 
dresses, Yaughan, standing alone 
on the terrace, saw Miss Eussel 
sitting reading under a tree which 
sheltered the croquet ground, and 
marching over the grass and flower- 
beds, he went and sat himself down 
beside her. A very quick friend- 
ship had arisen between those two. 
Yanghan felt that he could talk to 
Hiss Bussel as he could have talked 
to his own mother. 

" What is the matter with you?" 

she said, as he took off his hat , and 
pushed back his hair. **I do not 
think you are looking like yourself 
to-day. You seem as if you had 
been up all night. I hope you were 

" What should I be up for ? I 
did not even go into the smoking- 
room with the other fellows. I 
walked with Howard, on the terrace 
there, for about half an hour. It 
is very kind of you to notice how I 
look,*' he added, thanking her with 
his bright honest eves. 

*' Oh, as to my kindness, it is 
simply nothing. I cannot help see- 
ing that you are out of spirits. I 
do not want to pry into your con- 
fidence, Harry'* — she had soon 
begun the use of his Christian 
name — " but if you are worried 
about — about — money — or any- 
thing—young men often are, I 
know — I wish you would let me 
help you ; it would give me real 

** Thank you, very very much," 
he returned, taking the hand she 
had laid upon his arm. " I don't 
know what I have done to deserve 
such kindness" — he was his father's 
son, that was all — '^ but indeed I am 
not worried about money, my father 
gives n^e far more than I want, but " 
— and here be blushed a little, the 
foolish fellow, and stammered a 
good deal — **I want to know — I 
suppose she tells you everything, 
and if she doesn't you can make a 
guess — do you think !Rachel — Miss 
Scott, I mean — cares for Fairfax P 
I mean, of course, does he care for 
her P You know what I mean." 

" Before I answer your question 
I must ask another,*' replied Miss 
Bussel — and her tone was not 
nearly so sympathetic as Yaughan 
hoped it would have been — ** what 
can it be to you whether Miss Scott 
cares for Mr. Fairfax, or whether 
Mr. Fairfax cares for her P " 

** What can it be to me ? ** re- 
peated Yaughan, slowly, and he 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


drew in a long breath, and set bis 
teetb bard, as though be were 
trying to bear a spasm of pain — 
" well, I suppose it ought to be no- 
thing to me, but it is something — 
it is everything ; for she is every- 
thing in the world to me, and I 
can't bear to lose her, and now you 
have it all. I know I am just a 
thunderiDg idiot for my pains, for 
she does not care a straw if I were 
at the bottom of the sea.** 

All this was said so quietly, and 
yet so quickly, that Miss Russel 
had not time to interrupt him. She 
was scarcely astonished, for she had 
suspected something of the kind ; 
but she was not prepared for such 
an outburst, and she did not in the 
least know what to say to him. She 
thought of poor Scotelli, the music- 
roaster, and of the governess sister, 
and she felt inclined to think that 
it would be a very good thing for 
Vaughan to be disappointed in this 

'* I hope it is not as bad as that," 
she said at last, and her reply was, 
of course, utterly vague and pur- 

" Do you mean that you hope 
I am not as bad as I say, or 
that she does not wish me at the 
bottom of the sea?" asked Y^ughan, 
with so near approach to bis bright 
smile, that Miss Bussel felt quite 
relieved ; she had begun to fear 
that he was past smiling. 

" Oh, I don't know what I am say- 
ing,*' she replied. " I believe I 
intended to say that you perhaps 
mistake your own feelings." 

" I wish to Heaven I did !" in- 
terrupted Harry, vehemently; '* but 
I know better. I have made love 
to dozens of girls — ay, and thought 
I was in love with some of them, 
too — but I never cared for one of 
them as I care for her. I often 
think to myself that if old Jacob 
felt anything like what I feel, he 
must have thought the seven years 
he had to serve for his Bachel an 

awfully long time in passing, and yet 
I'd gladly spend three times seven 
if I could get my Rachel at the end 
of them. Don't laugh at me, 
please, I can't stand that. I dare- 
say I'm an ass. I know Fve seen 
fifty prettier women — although she's 
lovely — but I never before saw the 
woman whom I have wished to call 
my wife. Why did I let that fel- 
low get before me ? But I think 
I could give her up to him if I were 
sure he was not making a fool of 
her just to amuse himself." 

•• Oh, you don't think that ?" 
cried Miss Eussel. ''Surely he 
would not be so base." 

"I know nothing about him," 
said Vaughan. "I never even 
beard of him until I came to 

W ; but Major Howard knows 

him well, and he says — but I 
couldn't tell you all he told me 
about him, except that it is no 
credit to a woman, married or 
single, to have her name coupled 
with his." 

" I wish I had known all this 
before," said Miss Bussel ; " and 
he seems so quiet and respectful in 
bis manner to women. What 
do you advise? Shall I speak 
to Rachel? I know she accepts 
his attentions in perfect good faith, 
and I confess I hate to make her 
suspicious and distrustful ; the 
world will make her both soon 
enough, Q-od knows!" 

" No, do not speak to her ; be- 
sides the fellow may be serious this 
time ; of course, meeting her as h6 
has met her, he would not dare " — 
and here the blood rushed into 
Yaughan's face, and his eyes 
sparkled angrily — "to — to — oh, 
here she is, with Miss Fair£u and 
Franklin; and they have got the 
mallets and balls, and Fair&x— 
confound him ! — ^is not with them. 
Now we'll have a jolly game !" And 
away went Harry, as blithely as 
though the moon he was crying for 
were within his reach. 


The Shadow on the WaU. 


BoBsel watched the merry 
party for awhile before she went in. 
vaaghan's confidence had greatly 
disturbed her. What if Fairfax 
were really all that he had hinted ; 
what if Rachel's peace of mind were 
to be thus early wrecked? But 
above all, what was to be done for 
Harry himself ? And as she thought 
over all these tormenting questions, 
she said, what hundreds have said 
before her, and will say again, that 
it waa very provoking that the 
right people never fell in love with 
each other, although indeed in her 
opinion in this instance, there were 
no right people on either side ; for 
she could not allow herself to hope 
that her old friend would ever con- 
sent to the marriage of his only son 
with Bachel Scott. 

Meanwile there was nothing for 
it but to let things take their 

And events did take their course, 
as they will do in spite of all our 
poor efforts to prevent them, and 
a crisis came much sooner than 
appeared likely to any of the people 
most concerned. To any one who 
has studied life, even in the most 
cursory manner, it will appear quite 
natural that a crisis should so come, 
abruptly and unexpectedly — a crisis 
whicn utterlv completely and for 
ever changed the relations then 
existing between some three or four 
of Lord Wimburne's guests, and 
which prevented them from ever 
again meeting as they had met 
spoken and thought before 
they had come together at the 

Have we not all more or less ex- 
perience in such things, and do we 
not know what total changes oc- 
cur suddenly in our thoughts feel- 
ings and ways of life ? Do we not 
aU know what it is to get up in the 
mon^ng fully satisfied that * the 
same,^ it may be humdrum, exist- 
enee is before us for that day which 
we have lived through for months 

and years? — the same monotonous 
round of duties, the same, perhaps 
not very exciting, pleasures, and 
suddenly all *is altered, and never 
never never can we go .back to the 
old life any more. And now, in 
this quiet English country house, 
in which the people were all common- 
place people enough, '' a storm was 
coming, but the winds were still !*' 
Several days, nearly a fortnight 
indeed, passed away in much the 
same fashion. There was riding and 
walking, and croquet and Badminton 
for fine afternoons, and music and 
billiards for wet ones, and still 
Fairfax singled out Bachel for the 
object of his devoted attention, and 
both Yaughan and Miss Bussel 
believed that the affair would end 
in a proposal, and Harry was trying 
very hard to make up his mind to 
bear his disappointment, and Miss 
Bussel hoped that her pretty favour- 
ite was making a wise choice. 

From Bachel herself they could 
learn nothing; even with her kind 
friend Miss Kussel she was silent 
upon the subject of Mr. Fairfax. 
The truth was the girl was sorely 
puzzled. There was no disguising 
the fact that he was making love to 
her in the most unmistakable man- 
ner; that he was leaving no art 
untried to win her affection, and 
that he would have succeeded was 
also true beyond all question were 
it not for that undefined distrust of 
him which she could not conquer. 

But still, he never went beyond a 
certain point. He would tell her 
that he was miserable away from 
her ; that of all the women he had 
met she was the only one who had 
power to do with him — Heaven 
knows what I He would look into 
her eyes with long glances of pas- 
sionate admiration, but he never 
said, and apparently had no inten- 
tion of saying, *' Bachel, will you be 
my wife ? " 

So Bachel's pride began to rouse 
itself, and every day she came down 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


with the finn resolve not to allow 
herself to be taken possession of by 
Fairfax, and above all not to allow 
him to speak to her as he was in 
the habit of speaking. It was very 
easy to resolve, but very hard to 
earry out the resolution ; one re- 
proachful glance from the soft me- 
lancholy eyes, and the words, 
** Have I offended you ? '* whispered 
upon the first opportunity by that 
sweet low voice, and she was in the 
toils again. 

Of course Fairfax, being a thorough 
man of the world, saw at once how 
the poor girl was trying to resist 
him, but he had not the slightest 
idea of drawing back. He cared 
for her after his own selfish heart- 
less fashion ; that is, he admired her 
beauty, and found her very green- 
ness and simplicity attractive to his 
hlasS senses, and he was moreover 
not a little piqued that she was 
able to make even so slight a strug- 
gle to resist him. Women whom he 
honoured with his attentions gene- 
rally fell victims only too soon to 
his fascinations, and became dis- 
tressingly fond of him.> 

He was not by any means sure 
that Rachel's heart was really 
touched, and he swore that he 
would conquer her before he stopped . 
He suspected that Yaughan was in 
the way, but still he failed to detect 
anything but the merest common- 
places of society passing .between 
him and Miss Scott. 

And so, as I have said, the days 
slipped by until a fortnight had 
passed, at the end of which Miss 
Kussel left. Sachel had been 
pressed to stay on for some time 
longer; but Yaughan's visit, with 
that of his brother o£5cer8, was 
drawing to a close. 

Harry had made up his mind to 
apply for his long leave, and to get 

away from W until Bachel had 

become Mrs. Fairfax ; then perhaps 
the regiment would have marched 
to another quarter, and so, among 

new scenes and new faces, he would 
forget what at present seemed un- 

His last evening but one at the 
Priorv came. Indeed, the whole 
party was to disperse that week ; 
even Sachel had made up her mind 
to go; and when the ladies had 
said good-night, the gentlemen, as 
usual, adjourned to the smoking- 
room. In that sanctum peculiar to 
the ''lords," the conversation turned, 
as it very often did turn, upon 
women. Fair&x's manner of speak- 
ing about all women, but especially 
about those with whom he could 
boast ''success," was to Yaughan 
most offensive, but it irritated him 
almost beyond endurance that the 
man who was doing all in his power 
to win the heart of the only woman 
in the world for whom he himself 
cared, should speak of a girl's love 
as a thing which could be easily 
won, and then lightly flung aside. 
He listened with tingling ears for 
some mention of Bachel's name,- 
and it came at last in the form of a 
question firom one ofFairfax's " Lon- 
don set," a young G-uardsman called 

" I suppose you have not decided 
what you are going to do with that 
retty little Scott girl, have yon ? '* 
e asked. ''She is rather shy I 
think, isn't she ? " 

" Is she ? I don't see it," and 
Fairfax laughed a little langh which 
said, " I know better." 

"Well, I suppose it's all right, 
but it didn't stnke me that she had 
lost an inch of ground yet. Do 
you mean matrimony this time P " 

"Oh, of course — for richer, for 
poorer, for better, for worse, which 
means perambulators, and the rest 
of it — no, thank you ; not suCh a 
flat. But you seem to think that 
the little girl has been too many for 
me, Fane, do you ? Come, I'll bet 
you an even hundred that by this 
time to-morrow I'll have that little 
emerald ring she wears, I dare say 



Hie Shadow on the Wall. 


yon know it, given to me, a free- 
will offering, and when I show it to 
yon, 1*11 give my word of honour 
that the term marriage was never 
mentioned between us." 

" Done," cried Fane ; ." of course 
that sort of thing is easy enough in 
some quarters, but here— "^ 

'^ Nonsense, they're all the same," 
interrupted Fairfax with a sneer, 
and then they passed ou, to another 
sabject, or object rather, for the 
sn^ect was the same. 

Thb whole of this conversation 
had not reached Yaughan, for it 
was eanied on in a subdued toue, 
■till he heard quite enough to set 
hia blood boiling;- but he lay back 
in an arm-chair puffing his cigar, 
and apparently absorbed in the 
pages of a sporting magazine. 
Once, when Bacbel's name was first 
mentioned, he had looked up, and 
had caught Major Howard's glance 
fixed upon him with a peculiar ex- 
pression. H^ would have given a 
great deal to have had the power at 
that moment to shield the name of 
the woman he loved from being 
made the subject of conversation 
b^ween snch men as Fairfax and 
his fri^idy but he had no right to 
interfere ; besides, perhaps Fairfax 
bad good grounds to rest upon. 
Yaughan could not tell to what 
Imgtha the flirtation had gone. 

** Bat surely," he thought, as he 
walked up and down his room that 
night, cursing his own folly in 
hmng allowed himself to love the 
girl at all, ^' Surely I might venture 
to warn her now, as if she wer^ 
my own sister in the same* position. 
I have the fellow's own words that 
he has no intention of marrying 
her, and when she knows that! ^ 
Oh, if I could but have given him 
the lie to-night ! Poor little Bachel ! 
i wonder does she care for him? 
It ^'11 be a terrible thing for her if 
she dOte, and she will bate me ever 
after for exposing him to her. I 
wish there were no women in the 

world, except Miss Bussel, and my 
sisters, to torment a fellow like 

And then he went to bed and fell 
asleep at once, and dreamt that he 
had shot Fairfax in a duel, and that 
he was trying to bury him under an 
emerald ring, and that £achel was 
dancing the deux tempi over his 


"My dream is ranishedl I have lost the 
Ideal." From Hanibalf a dramcu 

There was a letter by Bachers 
plate next morning when she came 
down to breakfast, the sight of 
which rather surprised her, for it 
was addressed in her father's hand. 
The correspondence between the 
father and daughter was not kept 
up very regularly. The music- 
master had not much time for letter 
writing, and very little inclination 
to keep up a constant intercourse 
with the child of whom he knew 
but little ; so with almost a certain 
conviction that something was 
wrong, Rachel opened her letter, 
and read it through. Two people 
at the table, Yaughan, and Fairfax, 
were watching her with interest^ 
for they had both noticed the sudden 
flush that dyed her face when she 
read the address. 

" Can it be from him f " thought 

"A proposal from Vaughan,** 
thought Fairfax ; " by Jove, I didn't 
bargain for that. I must make my 
game before she has time to give 
him an answer. He must have 
heard us last night, and been driven 
to desperation ! Poor day vil ! ** 
which was the manner Mr. Fairfax 
chose to pronounce that naughty 
word ! 

£achel did not see the eyes that 
were fixed upon her from the oppo- 
site side of the table. She was fully 
occupied with the contents of the 


The Shadow on the WaU. 


letter, whicli were painful, for her 
father wrote in miserahle spirita. 
He dwelt vaguely upon some great 
trial that had come to him, and 
spoke of his health, which he said was 
iailiug,*and of his loneliness — though 
how he could be lonely when he had 
her sister, Rachel did not know. And 
he concluded by entreating Bachel 
if possible to come to him were it 
only for a few days ; was there any 
hope that Miss Conway would 
allow her ? 

The tears came into the girl's 
eyes, as she echoed the words, and 
she felt ashamed of herself when 
she remembered the brightness of 
her own happy life — especially 
bright had it been during the past 

She must go to her father of 
course, but how ? and when ? She 
feared her aunt would never con- 
sent. Oh, if MissBussel were only 
within reach ! Perhaps Lady Wim- 
bume would allow her to ride, or 

drive into W ; perhaps she 

ought to go home at once. She 
was greatly perplexed, poor child, 
and escaping from the usual practice 
in the drawing-room after breakfast, 
she went out, and going through 
the gardens and pleasure grounds, 
she made her way to a secluded 
walk out of sight of the windows. 

Neither of the two men who were 
anxious to meet her alone saw her 
ieave^the house ; but Fairfax, having 
ascertained that she was not as 
usual singing with his sisters, and 
knowing all her favourite out-of- 
door haunts, went out to look for 

Precisely, as though she had told 
him where to find her, they met. 
When she saw him coming, Bachel 
slipped her father's letter, which 
she had been reading for the twen- 
tieth time into her pocket, and 
tried to hide all traces of the trouble 
it had caused her. 

But her efforts were quite use- 
less. Fairfax saw the tear-dimmed 

eyes at once, and she knew that he 
saw them. ''What is the matter 
with you P " he said, drawing her 
hand within his arm, and holding 
it there, a proceeding which Bachd 
tried in vain to resist. ''Young 
ladies do not generally cry over 
their letters. Won't you tell me 
all about it, or shall I guess P " 

" It was very foolish of me to 
cry;" Bachel began, convinced that 
her companion would get his own 
way, whatever it might be — " but it 
was so sudden— I never thought — " 

" Stay," he interrupted, stepping, 
and looking down into her sweet 
troubled face, "I think I know 
what your letter is about; some 
unhappy wreteh — suppose we call 
him — well) never mind his name 
just now — ^whom you haveensnared, 
has written to tell you that without 
you life will be an eternal blank, 
and you " 

"Oh indeed, you are quite 
wrong," interrupted Bachel in her 
turn, " my letter is from my poor 
father ; he is ill and lonely, and he 
wants me to go to him." 

"The Devil," mentally ejacula- 
ted Fairfax, " here is an tmexpected 
complication I did not bargain for ; 
the music-master was upon the 
scene." But his spoken words 
were very different, and ere long, 
Bachel had told him all there was 
to tell, in fact she gave him her 
father's letter to read, and he went 
through it as if it were the most 
interesting document in the world 
to him. 

" And you would not have told 
me all this voluntarily," he'said, re- 
proachfully, as he returned it to 
her. " Ab, Bachel ! I am less to 
you than I hoped ; you longed for 
advice and sympathy, and yet you 
did not come to me." 

" I had no right to trouble you/' 
she faltered, blushing. 

" Trouble me I " he echoed, " I 
would not have thoui^kc of trouble 
had our positions been reversed — 


The SJiadow on the Wall. 


had I wanted sjmpathj, I would 
immediately have turned to one 
whom I loved. Bachel, dearest,** 
and releasing her hand, his arm stole 
round her waist, " tell me, am I in- 
deed nothing to you." 

** Let me go," sbe cried passion- 
ately, alarmed at the unlooked for 
action ; ** it is not right, I will not 
listen to you." 

But he held her the closer, and 
tried to look into her averted eyes, 
while he said, and never had his 
voice sounded half so reproachful, 
or half so sweet, *' And is this to be 
the end then? Have you been 
playing with me all this time, lead- 
ing me on to love you, as men only 
love once in a lifetime. But I 
cannot believe that my little £acbel 
is not true — look up, dearest, and 
tell me with those sweet lips that 
we are all in the world to each 

The poor girl was trembling with 
agitation, and she tried to look up, 
and answer him, but not a word 
would come. She would have given 
much to be able to say, and boldly, 
that they were not all in the world 
to each other, for at the moment she 
felt that his reproaches were all too 
tme, and that she did not really 
love him. But then suppose that 
she had, by her behaviour allowed 
him to think she did, what was to be 

Apparently, however, her silence 
was as satisfactory to Fairfax as 
her words could have been, for be- 
fore she could escape from him, he 
had bent down, and pressed a long 
ardent kiss upon her lips. The 
<»re8B aroused her ; she broke from 
his encircling arms, and stood at a 
little distance from him, blushing 
scarlet, and with a gleam of unmis- 
takable anger in her brilliant eyes. 

"Forffive me," he said, gently, 
** I could not help it ; if you are ice 
yourself, have some pity for those 
who are less fortunate. Besides, 
have I not said that I love you, 

Hachel, and why not ? — there, don't 
frown, I will not transgress again, 
without leave. And now may I 
not have some little token by which 
to remember this happy day, the 
first of many I hope — will you give 
me that ring," he pointed to an 
emerald set in the form of a sham- 
rock, which she always wore, ** and 
take this from mc." He drew a 
little case from his pocket, and took 
from it a beautiful locket set with 

" You may have my ring, if you 
think it worth taking," she replied, 
after a rooraent'd hesitation, and 
drawing the trinket from her finger 
as she spoke — she was quite herself 
again — ** but I cannot take anything 
in exchange from you until — until" 
— she stopped and again blushed 

He took the ring, slipped it upon 
his little finger, and held out his 
hand. ** You are angry with me 
still, I see," he said, not trying to 
finish her sentence for her, ** but if 
you knew how I was tempted! 
Good-bye for the present, we shall 
meet next with curious eyes upon 
us, but we shall remember our part- 
ing here." He pressed her hand 
with a long passionate clasp, and 
was gone in an instant. 

" And is that all ? " said Eachel 
to herself as she looked after him. 

It was without doubt a strange 
ending to a love scene, and although 
the man had said and done enough 
to warrant any woman in looking 
upon herself as his future wife, 
Rachel was by no means satisfied 
either with herself or with him. 
She sat down upon the stump of a 
tree to think over the whole affair, 
and she thought over it far more 
coolly than she could have done 
had she really cared for the man 
whose kiss was still warm upon her 

Why had he not said anything, not 
even a hint, about the future ? That 
love making was very pleasant — 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


Bachel felt tbat it was pleasant, 
but still, did not all the lovers she 
had ever heard or read of, always 
speak of the future which the 
mutual affection was to bind, and 
bless ? 

And then her thoughts went 
away to that future, for of course, 
although he had not said one word 
about ity he meant that they were 
to be married. Reginald Fairfax's 
wife ! Oh ! could it be possible ! 
The Hon. Mrs. Fairfax. Lady 
Wimbume some day, a long way 
off*. Do not be hard upon her, any 
of you ; she was only eighteen, and 
the prospect seemed a brilliant one. 
But what if she had offended 
Reginald by her coldness? She 
had given him her ring it is true, 
but she had not said one word in 
reply to his passionate declarations, 
and she had rejected his first gift. 
What a fool she had been ; had she 
not, as he had said, given him every 
encouragement ; and if she did not 
care for him, as much as he evi- 
dently cared for her, or as much as 
she felt she ought to care for the 
man she married, she had no right 
to draw back now. It would be all 
as it should be, now that she was 
certain of his attachment. Her 
distrust of him quite vanished now 
that he had confessed his love for 
her in plain words, and they would 
be very happy — and Baohel blushed 
vividly as she thought of her next 
meeting with him, and of how she 
could make amends for her cold- 

She then got up, and went back 
to the house witn a lighter heart 
than she had lefb it an hour before. 
It was true she had not got any 
adyice upon the subject of her 
father's letter, but somehow she 
felt happier about him too, and she 
could hardly blame Fairfax for 
having been too much taken up 
with herself, to have any thoughts 
to bestow upon the woes of the un- 
happy music-master. 

She met Yaughan stalking about 
by himself among the flower beds, 
and she said some gay words to him 
as she went by, a silly little speech, 
something about the language of 
flowers, or nonsense of that kind. 

Yatfehan made a reply that was 
certaiiuy gruflf, if not actually rude, 
and Bachel walked on with a shrug 
of her shoulders ; he might be 
sulky with her if he pleased. But 
indifferent as she appeared, she 
did not like being answered in that 
way by him. "I wonder what is 
the matter," she thought, ''can 
Julia have been teasing him ? " And 
I fear at the moment she did not 
feel very kindly towards her future 
sister-in-law I 

The matter, however, was simply 
this. Yaughan and Fairfax had 
met as the latter was returning 
from his interview with Rachel, 
and Harry had seen the emerald 
ring, and knew that his warning 
would now come too late ; but when 
he remembered the terms of the 
bet) he was obliged to confess that 
Bachel was not ^1 that he believed 
her to be. 

And then, when he saw her coming 
smilinp; towards him, and looked at 
her bright beauty, and heard her gay 
words, ne felt that althoi::gh his es- 
teem and respect had considerably 
lessened, his love was stronger than 


Rachel did not go to The Lodge 
that day. She was to leave the 
Priory the day following, and it 
would be time enough, she decided, 
to see Miss Russel then, so she 
contented herself by writing a long 
affectionate letter to Her father, 
telling him that^when she went home, 
she hoped to get leave from her 
aunt to visit him, but that should 
she not be able to go, he might rely 
upon her sympathy and affectipn. 

She was very happy as she wrote 
her little comforting words, and 
when as her pen flew rapidly over 
the paper, she was thinking what 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


Pairfaz would say when next tbej 
met, and blushing over the re- 
membrance of his words and ac- 
tions that morning. The tiny 
spark of love she cherished for him, 
and which I am inclined to think 
existed more in fancy than in 
reality, had considerably increased 
in warmth since he had spoken those 
caressing words. It so happened 
that she and Fairfax did not meet 
again during the fore, or afternoon. 
She heard his friend Fane inquiring 
anxiously about him, but he had 
ridden into W ■■ ■ with Lord Wim- 
bume, to attend some public meet- 
ing, and consequently he was not at 
luncheon, after which, Badminton 
was played indefatigably for three 
hours or more. 

Yaughan excused himself from 
joining the game, although Rachel 
asked him herself, and although 
Julia Fairfax looked disappointed 
at his desertion. He had a 
headache, he said, and would take 
a gallop to cure himself. So ac- 
cordingly he did gallop, and found 
that relief which men always do 
find in physical exertion. 

When women find out that their 
idols hare clay feet — and unfortu- 
nately there is very little of the 
genuine metal in the feet of any of 
OOP idols — they either turn *• fast," 
OP "literary," or "religious," or 
•* strong-minded," and " go in " for 
" social science," and the " rights of 
women." But men "take it out" 
of themselves in another, and a 
wilder fashion; gallops across the 
country, clearing every fence, great 
and small, which comes before them, 
is one, and perhaps the least hurtful 
mode of lettine off manly steam ! 
The risk of a broken neck makes 
the ride all the more agreeable. 

Yaughan came back just as the 
dressing bell was ringing, in a better 
humour with himself, and with all 
the world. He was very fond of 
Bschel, there was no doubt about 
it. But after all, he supposed he 

would get over it in time. He did 
not feel in the least as if he were 
going to be a blighted being for 
the rest of his days, and accordingly, 
when he began to dress, he was not 
less careful than usual to have the 
parting of his hair quite on a line with 
his nose, than he had been every 
day during his stay at the Priory. 
You see, no matter how miserable, 
and how disappointed we may be^ 
we must dress, and we must eat,, 
and I do not see, although a man 
may be heart-broken, why he should 
not be able to appreciate the flavour 
of veuve Cliquot or pate defoie gras t 

Bat Eachel, feeling particularly 
happy, and just sufficiently excited 
to make the colour deepen most 
becomingly in her cheeks, took 
extra pains in the dressing of her 
hair that day, and put on besides 
her prettiest gown, and if she was 
ready to go down stairs twenty 
minutes earlier than usual, and if 
she hoped by so doing that she 
might meet Beginald Fairfax, and 
have the pleasure of his company 
alone for even ten minutes before 
dinner, was she to blame ? 

But when she came down the 
drawing room was empty, and 
there was not the sound of an ap- 
proaching footstep. She thought 
first of going to the piano, but she 
could not bring herself to let him 
know, even by such indirect means, 
that she was waiting for him, so 
she took a book instead, and went 
to sit at one of the open windows, 
and the full hangings of muslin and 
silk, completely hid her from the 
view of any one in the room. 

She was listening too intently to 
pay much attention to her book, and 
presently she heard a man's step 
crossing the hall ; the door opened, 
she peeped through the curtains, 
and saw, not Fairfax, but his friend 
Fane. She was disappointed of 
course, and wondered why he had 
come in so early that day, when it 
was his habit to appear iust as the 



The Shadow on the Wall. 


dinner bell rang. But after all, 
it had been a chance only, that 
tSte-a-tete with her lover, and she 
determined to stay just quietly 
where she was, until all the other 
guests came in, and then she could 
slip out and join them ; so she 
settled herself to her book, but she 
had read about a dozen lines only, 
when another, and a quicker step 
was heard, and in a moment Fairfax 
was in the room. 

** My dear fellow," he said to Fane, 
"I was so busy all day long I could 
not get near you, and when I heard 
your door shut just now I hurried 

down look here," and he held 

up his finger. 

'* By Jove ! youVe got it ! " 

** Yes, and on my honour the 
word marriage was never mentioned. 
I don't think. she knew very well 
what to make of me, and to tell 
vou the truth, I do not very well 
know what to do next" 

" Poor Regy ! you're up a tree 
at last, I suspect,*' was all the com- 
ment vouchsafed by his friend. 

** Not a bit of it ; I have done 
the same thing many times before. 
I've made no promise you see, and 
she's going away to-morrow or the 
next day, and I can go abroad, or 
keep out of the way, and she will 
marry some rosy cheeked squire 
about here, or perhaps that young 
Vaughan; it is a regular case of 
spoons with him I know, — and I 
have Madame' s ring you see, and we 
shall be the best of friends bye- 
nnd-bye — you understand ! " 

** Oh, perfectly. I say, have you 

seen '* and they began to talk 

of something else. 

But poor Eachel had heard 
enough, aud more than enough. 
The winds had been very still, but 
now the storm had come in real 
earnest. She did not understand the 
jest about Madame' 8 ring in the least, 
but she perfectly understood that she 
had been the dupe of a thoroughly 
heartless man. And the sharpest 

sting of all was the thought that 
she had allowed him to speak to her 
as he had spoken that morning, 
and to kiss her, and call her bj 
caressing names, and her cheeks 
fairly tingled with shame and 
wounded pride, and hot tears rushed 
to her eyes ; but then, just at the 
moment, in came Lady Wimburne 
and her daughters, followed by tho 
other guests, and she had to nerve 
herself to meet them, and to talk, 
and laugh just as usual. 

It never occurred to her that 
perhaps Fairfax or his friend would 
see her emerging from her retreat ; 
but to say the truth, she did not 
care in the least whether she was 
seen by them or not. She certainly 
had all but fallen in love with that 
handsome deceiver, upon whose 
finger her poor little ring was now 
glittering. But it does not take 
much to blow out a feeble spark, 
and the feeling she experienced now 
was a strange combination of con- 
tempt for him, and still greater 
contempt for her own weakness and 

Surely she must have been greatly 
to blame when he had ventured to 
go so far ; and now he had got her 
ring, and might show it, and boast 
of it as he pleased — had he not al- 
ready done so to Mr. Fane ? She 
had a wild impulse to dash out of 
her hiding-place, and to demand it 
from him, there and then, but the 
utter ridicule of such a proceeding 
struck her at once, and with a grim 
little laugh she pushed aside the 
curtain, and came out into the 

Fairfax did not see her, but hi^ 
friend did, and he was at no loss to 
account for the crimson spot which 
burned upon her cheeks, nor for 
the glance of mingled scorn and 
defiance that shot from her pretty 
soft eyes upon the unconscious back 
of Fairfax. 

'' By Jove! she heard us, and she'll 
play the deuce with him," said Fane 


The Shadow on the WaU. 


to himself} and all his sympathies 
were with Bachel at the moment ; 
she looked so handsome under the 
influence of this, her first experience 
of man's truth and honour. 

"It's all up with you, old fellow," 
he continued to whisper to Fairfax, 
jost as dinner was announced. *' She 
was behind the curtain all the time, 
I saw her coming out." And Fair- 
fiuL made answer, **The deuce she 
was ; " and then he went in, and 
ate his dinner, and smiled a little 
now and then to himself, when he 
caught sight of Rachel's flashing 
eyes at the other end of the table. 
Tt was a very trying evening for 
her, but she showed herself true 
metal, and behaved gallantly. She 
appeared to be in brilliant spirits, 
and she sung better than she had 
ever sung before, and as to her 
conversation, it was spirited and 
piquante beyond description ; no- 
thing whets a woman's tongue so 
sharplyas outraged pride. Yaughan, 
who coidd not help watching her, 
thought she was intoxicated with 
the triumph of having Fairfax for 
her lover ; but when he saw the ring 
upon the Qnger of the Hon. Regi- 
nald, and remembered the bet in 
the smoking-room, he used hard 
words to her in his thoughts. 

Fairfax, he observed, carefully 
avoided her during the evening. 
The truth was, that gentleman did 
not quite know what his reception 
might be, and he wanted time to 
arrange some plan of action ; but 
when the lauies were retiring, 
Taughan noticed a little pantomime 
which greatly astonished him. He 
saw FairfEix, as usual, standing at 
the door to say good-night to 
each fair guest as she went by. 
Bachel was the last ; she took no 
notice whatever of his outstretched 
hand, but swept past him with a 
bow stately enough for an Empress ! 
It was indeed almost ludicrous to 
see the dignity which the childish 
little figure had assumed, and as 

Fairfax bowed low in return, he felt 
that she was worth even the sacri- 
fice of his precious liberty to win. 

Before sne was out of sight he 
had made up his mind what course 
to adopt, and as he did not appear 
in the smoking room, his friend 
Fane went to look for him, and 
found him in his private sitting 
room, a cozy little chamber on the 
ground floor. He was sitting at a 
writing table, and a note he had 
just sealed lay before him, awaiting 
its address. 

** Your last speech and dying 
confession is it?" asked Fane, 
perching himself upon the edge of 
the table, and pointing to the note, 
—"Where is the pistol? Shall 
I write the sensation paragraph for 
the morning papers ? By Jove, 
that little girl's bow was superb! 
What are you going to do next ? " 

** Marry her," replied Fairfax, 

" You marry ! " returned Fane» 
quite taken aback ; " why you must 
have gone mad !" 

" Never was more sane, or more 

in earnest in mj life. Look here, 

it must come some day : marriage I 

mean, and she is about as pretty a 

wife as I could find, and I haven't 

behaved well to her, 'pon my soul 

I haven't ; I actually felt ashamed 

of myself to-night when she passed 

me with that scornful look. And 

besides after all, you know, as far as 

I can see marriage isn't such a clo^ ; 

a fellow cau do pretty much as he 

likes, married or single, and so long 

as he doesn't beat his wife, or leave 

his letters about, it s all right. My 

father will cut up rough I suppose, 

and my lady will cry a bucket full, 

and tell me about all the heiresses 

I might have had for the asking, 

but they will come round all right 

in time. What do you say ? You 

look as sober as a judge." 

** I say that you seem to take the 
lady's consent for granted. Come, 
you won a hundred from me to-day, 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


made it double or quits that^she 

'* Befuses me 1 I wish there was 
auch luck in store ; although I am 
serious in mj intention, for you 
don*t know half the complications 
-of this affair. Look at that/' he 
opened a drawer, and taking a 
photograph from it he gave it to 
jPane, who looked at it attentively 
for a second or two, then he gave a 
long whistle, and looked at Fairfax. 

" Does she know ? *' he asked. 
" Miss Scott, I mean ? " 

" Not she indeed, she is about as 
innocent a little person as there is in . 
all England. She showed me a 
whining letter from her father this 
morning, and I suspect his grievance 

is about " and he touched the 

photograph — *^of course it will be 
my aftair to get her safely out of 
the way before I marry. And now 
to send this note. Will you ring 
the bell like a good fellow r" 

"Is that the proposal?" Fane 
asked as he obeyed. 

" No, this is merely asking her 
for an interview to-morrow morning, 
and begging her not to condemn 
me unheard. I take it for granted 
that she was by during our infernal 
talk before dinner. E^ppy thought, 
always look behind the curtains 
when you talk of women in a 
drawing-room — Here," as his valet 
entered, '* give this note to one of 
the maids to take to Miss Scott's 
room, and bring me an answer." 

The man obeyed. ** Now then, 
Fane my boy, wish me every 
happiness and prosperity. Before 
we meet at breakfast to-morrow I 
shall be — Good Heavens ! almost 
married! You'll be best man of 
■course ; you won't desert me in that 
fatal hour ?" 

** Oh ! I shan't desert you," re- 
turned Fane, and then the two men 
lighted cigars, and smoked in silence 
an til the servant came back. 

He gave his master a little note, 
and again retired. Fairfax tore it 

open with unaffected eagerness. It 
was ' short, and verj dignified. 
^'Miss Scott presents her com- 
pliments to Mr. Fairfax, and begs 
that he will return the ring which 
he took from her this morning. 
Miss Scott declines to meet Mr. 
Fairfax in the morning or at any 
other time." 

"There!" cried Fairfax, tossing 
the note to his companion, " she's 
on her high horse, and she loses the 
chance of being * my lady.' " But 
although he spoke in his usual 
bantering style, he both looked, and 
felt terribly put out. 

" By Jove, she's a little brick !" 
said Fane. •* I'm sorry you did not 
bet, old fellow ! You will send her 
back the ring, I suppose ? " 

*^ Oh yes, she shall have it, and 
you shall be my messenger this 
time. Fane; but not to-night, for 
that wouldn't be proper.^ Perhaps 
you'll go in and win on your own 
account now." 

" No, thank you," replied Fane 
quietly ; " I am your friend, and that 
would spoil my chance; but I'll 
give her the ring with pleasure. I 
am not to say anything I suppose." 

"Nothing, unless you can invent 
some pretty little fable to' put that 
conversation she overheard out of 
her head. I think it was deuced 
shabby of her to listen. Now I'll 
bolt first thing to-morrow ! I could 
not stand looking small before a 
woman. There's the ring. How 
pretty she looked this morning 
when she gave it to me. Well, it's 
' better to have loved and lost,' you 
know ! Are you going ? Good 
night; come and breakfast here 
to-morrow, I shall start early for 


There comes 

For ever, sometliiiig between ua and what 

We deem our happiness. 


I AH sure I should say now only 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


what was expected of me, were I to 
declare that what she had heard 
from behind the curtain in the 
Priory drawing-room had changed 
Bachel Scott from a girl into a 
woman. We read of these sudden 
transformations in books, but I 
think we rarely meet with them in 
real life. It takes far more than 
the discovery that a man for whom 
a nrl had only a weak little fancy 
(the result of flattered vanity, and 
the pleasure which all women find 
in a little love making), had been 
only amusing himself to while away 
the dulness of a country house, to 
change a light-hearted child almost, 
for Sachel was scarcely more, into 
a saddened and disappointed woman. 
When at last the evening was 
over, and she had shut her door, 
and found herself alone for the 
night, she was intensely relieved. 
She had been longing to escape, 
that she might think over all that 
had happened, and decide what 
plan it would be best to adopt, in 
order to get back her ring. Should 
she ask for it herself, or should she 
write a note, and request that it 
might be sent to her? But that 

Elw involved some amount of pub- 
city, and was therefore given up 
at once ; or should she leave it with 
FairfiEuc, and never speak to him 
•gain while she lived ? 

She felt strongly inclined to 
adopt this latter course. What 
matter what people said, when she 
knew the truth herself. But after 
all there is not much satisfaction 
in knowing the truth one's self if 
one or two people, whose good 
opinion we value, do not know it 
also; and, as a matter of course, 
the only one, except perhaps Miss 
Bussel, whom Bachel longed to 
enlighten as to what had really 
taken place between herself and 
Fairfax was Harry Yaughan, 

^' I know he thinks I am a silly 
flirting little thing,*' she thought, 
as she at length began to take off 

the pretty dress she had put on 
with such pride a few hours before, 
^ and I cannot bear him to think 
that ; and perhaps he has seen the 
ring with that dreadful man, and — 
oh, if I could only get it back, and 
tell him all about it ! I wonder is 
he going to matrry Julia. Come in 1" 
— a knock at the door had inter- 
rupted her. 

A smart housemaid entered with 
a note. 

** Mr. Fairfax's valet gave me 
this for you, ma'am ; and he wants 
an answer, ma'am, if you please." 

With a deep flush, which the 
maid duly noticed, Bachel took the 
note, and read : — 

*' Do not condemn me unheard. I 
shall wait for you to-morrow before 
breakfiBLst in the laurel walk. — B. F." 

Bachel flung down the paper, as 
though it would sting her, and 
turning to the writing-table, she 
penned the very dignified epistle 
which has been already quoted. 
The maid took it and departed, 
rather disposed to wonder what 
this exchange of such short missives 
might portend, and she gave it as 
her opinion in the servants' hall, 
that ** Miss Scott and Mr. Beginald 
'ad 'ad a blow hup." 

" Wait for me, indeed ! He may 
wait," was Miss Scott's fierce, but 
not very dignified, comment, as she 
tore "Mr. Beginald's " note into 
very small pieces, and flung them 
disdainfully into the empty grate. 
** He takes it for granted that I 
shall go and be made a fool of again, 
I suppose. No, thank you, Mr. 
Fairfax, once was quite enough." 
And Bachel, in her white dressing- 
gown, and with her long hair 
streaming over her shoulders, made 
a low curtsey of ironical respect 
to an imaginary Mr. Fairfax. ** If 
be does not send' back my ring, he 
hasn't a particle of gentlemanly 
feeling about him !" 

Poor little Bachel ! She made a 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


great fuss over an affair which 
young kdies who had seen more of 
the world would have taken very 
quietly. I wonder would it have 
altered her decision had she known 
what Mr. Fairfax's object in ackinc: 
her to meet him really was? I 
daresay it would. I am not trying 
to represent Bachel Scott as an 
exalted character by any means, 
and had she met Fairfax as he 
asked her to do, it is more than 
probable that he would have per- 
suaded her that two and two do not 
make four, or that black was white, 
or taught her in some way to doubt 
the evidence of her senses, and that 
she would have forgiven him, 
trusted him — and married him ! 

Are not hundreds of girls tempted 
into loveless marriages every day by 
the prospect of " a name and of a 
ring," especially when the name car- 
ries with it the prefix of Honour- 
able, and when the ring has probably 
a diamond guard ? 

Mr. Fane played his small part 
in the little comedy to perfection. 
He joined Lady Wimbume and 
Miss Scott in a ramble round the 
gardens after breakfast the follow- 
ing morning. Bachel clung perti- 
naciously to her hostess, as though 
she fancied that with the mother 
there would be protection from the 
son ; but when her ladyship was 
called away by a gardener to look 
at some pet plant which was droop- 
ing, Fane took the opportunity to 
give the young lady the ring. 

'' Mr. Fairfax asked me to give 
you this. Miss Scott, with his very 
best wishes." That was all he said, 
and his tone was quiet and respect- 
ful. Miss Scott got very red, and 
she held the ring as if it were a 
venomous serpent. 

Then, having nothing more to 
say, Mr. Fane took himself off, and 
she gave a great sigh of relief. 
But when the gentleman had gone 
a little way, he turned to look back 
at the young lady. I do not know 

whether he expected to see her 
weeping over her recovered trinket, 
but ne did see a curious little pan- 
tomime. He saw Rachel flinging 
something away, in the awkward 
manner in which women general^ 
do fling sticks or stones — anything 
in fact, always supposing they are 
given to such amusements. 

•• Hallo," he said, " what's she 
throwing stones at? By Jove, 
here's a go ! It's the ring. What 
a jolly little brick she is, after all I" 

And he was right. It was the 
ring, which Bachel in her indigna- 
tion had thrown away. It was very 
foolish of her ; but if people were^ 
born old and experienced, how 
heavily the wisdom of the serpent 
would outweigh the innocence of 
the dove. 

And so ended the visit to Wim- 
burne Priory, which was to have 
been so pleasant ; and Lady Wim- 
bume, and the '* girls" as they 
kissed Bachel at parting, knew no 
more than did the girl herself 
how narrow their escape had been 
of having her as a daughter-in-law 
and sister. Fairfax she did not 
see before she left. 

Ynughan and his brother officers 

returned to W , apparently very 

much as they had left it ; but Harry 
again began to think seriously of 
applying for his '* long leave," and 
in the meantime he took to study^ 
ing ** Bradshaw." But he could 
not make up his mind whether ta 
go to the English Lakes, and then 
over tho Border for a walking 
tour in Scotland, or to Ireland 
to seeKiUarnev and the West coast: 
or, perhaps, Switzerland and Mont 
Blanc would be better than either. 
The project last named was very 
attractive. Mountain-climbing was 
dangerous, and if he should fall 
over a precipice, no one would mias 
him, or be sorry for him, except bis 
father and his sisters, and Howard ^ 
and one or two of the fellows in 
the — th ; and perhaps when Rachel 


Tlie Shadow on the Wall 


read about tlie *' melaDcholj acci- 
dent *' ia the Times, she would say, 
•* Ah ! there is the poor fellow I 
used to sing duets with killed !'' 
And then, if he should survive to 
come back to W , the hunting 
would be in, and he need not see 
more of Bachel than he chose. 

I think Miss Julia Fairfax was 
more disappointed than anv one 
when the lights were fled, and the 
garlands were dead, and when the 

faests had departed from the 
riory. She had found Vaughan's 
society exceedingly pleasant, and 
he had bestowed a good deal of it 
upon her, notwithstanding his 
state of mind about llachel, and 
when be wetft away at last with- 
out having said anything more 
Particular than, ** Well, good-bye, 
fiss Fairfax," she felt that she 
ought to be very miserable. 

So accordingly she had a bad fifc 
of Tennyson, and read, and re-read 
*• Mariana," and ** Locksley Hall," 
and she altered the dressing of her 
hair, and gave up wearing ear-rings, 
and began to take solitary walks, 
and she used to sit at her bedroom 
window every night gazing at the 
moon shining upon the croquet- 
ground uutil sho got sleepy, and 
began to — yes, un romantic as it 
sounds — to nod. But after a week 
there was no moon, and she and her 
sister got an invitation to stay at a 
pleasant country house, so she put 
m her earrings again, and got better 

Bachel on her return to W 
soon made her appearance at The 
Lodge, and told Miss Eussel all 
her woes. She did not spare her- 
self, indeed so vehemently did she 
upbraid her own levity and folly — 
those were the hard names she used 
-»that Miss Hussel, although fully 
conscious that her pet had been 
rather foolish, was fain to comfort 
her by saying that she thought her 
conduct at the climax had been be- 
yond all praise. ^* Had you gone to 

meet him that morning as he asked 
you to do," she said, "you would 
have put yourself in his power com- 
pletely." Thereby showing that 
both £>he and Sachel had in this 
special matter a much worse opinion 
of Fairfax than he really deserved. 

"But," said Rachel, when the 
whole affair had been talked over,, 
"there is one thing I want my 
dearest Granny to do for me. Mr. 
Vaughan was at the Priory while 
all that was going on, and you and 
he are great friends, and I want 
you, please, to tell him just enough 
about it all to show him that I am 
not quite so foolish as he thinks." 

"And were not Major Howard* 
and Captain Franklin also at the 
Priory ? " replied Miss Eupsel, try- 
ing not to smile. " Am I to tell 
them too that you are not quite so 
foolish as perhaps they think." 

" Now, Granny, dear, you are 
laughing at me. I do not care 
what Major Howard, or Captain 
anybody, except just Mr. Vau^han 
thinks ; nor indeed what he thinks 
very much either," she added, get- 
ting very red at the inference which 
her words bore ; " but you will tell 
him, will you not ? " 

And Miss Kussel said he should 
hear it if she found an opportunity 
of speaking to him upon the subject ; 
" but I do not promise to make an 
opportunity," she said, ** for you 
do not suppose Mr. Vaughan troubles 
himself about what you do." 

" Perhaps not," poor Bachel an- 
swered, with a little sigh, and she 
thought of Julia Fairfax, and it 
never occurred to her that Miss 
Bussel had spoken words that she 
knew were not altogether true. So 
Eachel went home comforted a little 
for the time, but the succeeding 
Sunday afternoon, when, on coming 
from service at the Cathedral^ 
Vaughan merely took off his hat, 
and bowed formally, instead of 
walking home with her, as he had 
done more than once, she felt that 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


it would add very much to her 
happiness if he were to know the 
truth ahout her and Fairfax. 

And he did know it before very 
long. About a fortnight later there 
came a very wet day, and dark down- 
pour of rain, lasting from moruiog 
until night, and Yaughan got a ter- 
rible fit of the " blues/' He sulked 
all day long in his own room, and 
his brother officers, failing to get a 
civil word from him, left him alone. 
At length he could stand it no 
longer, the deserted barrack square, 
with the monotonous sight of the 
sentry in his great coat passing up 
and down at the gate ; the distract- 
ing sound of the band practising in 
a large room close to his own, were 
he felt actually setting him mad ; 
80 putting on a cap and a light 
overcoat, he started for a solitary 
country walk. 

He took the road to Thorndale 
liodge, and as he went past the 
gate he felt strongly tempted to 
turn in. Perhaps Miss Scott was 
there spending that day with her 
friend. Well, did he not want par- 
ticularly to avoid meeting Miss 
ticottp — so on be went splashing 
through the mud, and trying to 
believe that he was enjoying him- 
aelf. It was late, and almost quite 
<lark, as he again passed The Lodge 
on his way home ; he was rather 
wet, excessively muddy, and just as 
cross as when he went out. He 
turned his head to look up at 
the house, and catching sight of 
what looked like the gleam of a 
fire shining through the windows 
of Miss Bussels drawing-room, 
without pausing to think this time 
he opened the gate, and in a few 
minutes more, he was standing be- 
iiide her at the fire, with his muddy 
boots and his splashed trousers. 

** I know I am not fit to be seen," 
he said, by way of apology, " but I 
saw the light of the fire as I went 
by, and I could not help looking in 
lor a momeut." 

«* I am delighted to see you," 
she said ; " but where have you been 
this dreadful day ? " 

" Out for a walk ; I got so bored 
I had to come out. But indeed I 
ought to apologize for my boots. I 
am afraid I am too wet and 
dirty to sit down." 

" Leave that for me to think," 
she replied, pleasantly. " I was 
getting bored with my own com- 
pany, so you must stay for a while 
— there now stretch out your feet, 
and they will not be long drying, 
and then you can have yourself 
brushed if you like." 

"Don't you think I had better 
put off that operation until I get 
back to the barracks," Harry re- 
plied, laughing, and doing as he was 

" If you like, but I think you 
might stay and dine with me — that 
is if you think that one chicken 
will be enough for both of us." 
Miss Eussel was one of the few sin- 
gle women who did not dine early. 

Harry said he thought one 
chicken would be quite enough, so 
it was settled; and then Vaughan 
felt that he had done well incoming 
out for that long walk in the rain. 

" This is jolly ! " he said, as they 
returned to the warm, and well- 
lighted drawing-room after dinner, 
and drew an easy chair each to the 
fire. •* I am so tired of that long 
stupid dinner we have every day." 

** Ah ! you only say that to make 
me feel comfortable about my 

*• No, indeed. I never ate a dinner 
I enjoyed half so much. It a all 
the men I get tired of I like to 
see ladies at the table, and to have 
them about me in the evening." 

"You should marry," she said, 
and when she saw the shade that 
crossed Harry's face at her words 
she wished them unsaid. 

" If I could have got her,'' he 
said, after a pause, in a very low 
voice ; and then after another pause 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


he added, '^Miss Bassel, can you 
tell me if she is going to marry 

The opportunity bad come» and 
Hiss Bussel kept her word, and in 
a few minutes Yaugbau knew that 
Bachel Scott was as worthy of his 
esteem as she had ever been. 

** I see it all now," he said, with 
a radiant face. '* I thought she was 
only coquetting with bim when she 
made him such a stately bow that 
evening — what a scoundrel the 
fellow must be. I am glad I never 
liked him. I shan't ask for my 
leave now. I had quite made up 
my mind to apply for it to-morrow. 
what a confounded muff I have 
been after all !*' 

" Will you take my advice ?*' 
said Miss hussel, earnestly. '* Apply 
for your leave, and go away, Bachel 
does not care for you, and " 

^' But she mightcare," interrupted 
Yau^ban, who had a very good 
opinion of his powers of fascination 
at that moment. ^* You tell me 
that she never had more than a 
very slight fancy for Fairfax, which 
she has quite got over, so I'll do 
my best ; if I fail, I shall not be 
worse off than I was when I thought 
•he was in love with bim." 

**But your father!" pleaded 
Miss Bussel, as soon as she could 
get in a word ; •* you remember 
what I told you of Bachel's con- 
nections; would he be satisfied 
with her for a daughter ?* 

*' Perhaps not at first, but when 
he came to know her he could not 
help loving her" — men always think 
that the women whom they find 
irresistible will prove irresistible 
to every other man in the world — 
** I know he is anxious for me to 
marry, and after all I am not 
going to marry her father I" 

Of course that argument was 
conclusive. Miss Hussel felt that 
opposition would be useless, and 
again decided upon allowing matters 
to take their course. 

So Yaughan finally made up his 
mind not to apply for his leave, 
and the followmg Sundav he did 
not pass Bachel with a bow only, 
and accordingly she knew at once 
that Miss Bussel had given him the 
wished for explanation. 

But with that tendency which 
things in this life have to go 
crooked at the moment we think 
they are about to go perfectly 
straight, Yaughan did not seem to 
gain an inch of ground, just when 
he thought he had nothing to do 
but put out his hand and pluck the 
coveted prize, that is to get Bachel 
as his wife. Perhaps with tlie per- 
versity which is woven into the 
nature feminine, now that Bachel 
found herself reinstated in the good 
opinion of the man whose good 
opinion she valued, she did not care 
for anything further — perhaps after 
the little episode in her histoiy 
already told, she was shy of be- 
lieving that a man may occasionally 
mean what he says. But whatever 
the cause might be, the effect was, 
that she seemed to think Yaughan's 
admiration and attentions were 
bestowed just as those of Fairfax 
had been, for his own amusement 
only, and beyond a certain point he 
could not get. 

He met her constantly. He was 
always making excuses to be with 
her ; but he never could discover, 
even by the faintest sign, whether 
she cared more for him than for 
any other man among her circle of 
acquaintances. If she kept the 
after- supper valse for him on Mon- 
day night, she kept it for Captain 
Franklin on Tuesday, and if she 
wore at the theatricals got up by the 
gallant — th the camellias which 
he had got for her all the way from 
"The Oak?," she would appear with 
a bouquet presented by a devoted 
young ensign at the concert given 
t)v the Amateur Musical Society of 
W . 

And so the autumn and the 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


wiuter passed, and the fierce March 
wind was blowing, and the blinding 
dust was fljing, when a rumour 
went about that the — th would 
shortly get the route for Ireland, 
and Yaughan, as regarded Miss 
Scott, was precisely where he had 
been the night he dined in his 
muddy boots at The Lodge. No, 
he was not quite where he was, he 
had cared for Rachel then, but he 
was passionately desperately in 
love with her now, aud if she had 
wanted to secure his affections be- 
yond the chance of wavering, she 
could not have done so more effect- 
ually than by her apparent indiffer^ 
ence. He would have walked miles 
just for the pleasure of looking at 
her, and yet he was absolutely 
afraid to tell her how dear she was 
to him. What would become of 
him if she were to tell him that she 
had not, and never could have any 
love lor him in return! Miss 
Bussel either could not or would 
not help him in the matter. 8he 
was not in Rachel's confidence, she 
said, but nevertheless I thiuk she 
knew enough to feel sure that 
Taughan need not have been so 
much afraid of a refusal. 

Easter fell early that year. On 
the afternoon of Easter Sunday 
there was to be a grand choral ser- 
vice in the Cathedral, and Yaughan, 
knowing that Miss Scott would be 
there, and that the pleasure of escort- 
ing her home would fall to him, 
went to hear it. There was a cer- 
tain stall, commanding a view of 
the corner in the Chancellor's pew, 
always occupied by Rachel, which 
Harry had appropriated to himself, 
and in it he, as usual, settled him- 
self long before the service began. 

The Church was already very full, 
but she had not come in yet, and 
Yaughan kept his eyes not upon 
the crimson cushions of the Chan- 
cellor's pew, but upon the crimson 
curtain over the entrance door, that 
he might catch the first glimpse of 

the slight graceful little figure, and 
the pretty white bonnet under 
which the sweet face he loved looked 
so charming. 

He was many times disappointed, 
for so many white bonnets came in 
that he began to think the ladies of 
W must have entered into a 

conspiracy to torment him. 

First, in came Mrs. Bokeby and 
her daughters, and both the girls 
had white bonnets on. Then fol- 
lowed Lady Wimbume, and the 
Misses Fairfax ; Julia looking very 
pretty iu a bewitching white bonnet, 
and after them, with his eyes me- 
lancholy as usual, came the Hon. 
Regiiialcl. To see him did not im- 
prove Yaughan's temper. Then 
the organ pealed out, and the doors 
were opened wide, and the choris- 
ters came in followed by several 
clergymen. The procession was 
closed by the Dean with a red bag 
on his back, and by the Bishop 
whose lawn sleeves were very full 
and clean. But still the corner in 
the Chancellor's pew was empty, 
and empty it remained during the 
entire service. 

I fear Harry was sadly inatten- 
tive to the prayers, and to the 
beautiful music, but he would not 
perhaps have taken Rachers absence 
80 much to heart had they not 
talked together several times of this 
Easter afternoon service, both 
agreeing that they should not like 
to miss it. Miss Russel was there, 
and Yaughan waylaid her coming 
out, and asked her if she knew where 
Miss Scott was ; but Miss Russel 
was as much surprised at Rachel's 
non-appearance as was the young 
man himself, so he went away to 
his barracks very much disappointed, 
and of course thinking that some- 
thing dreadful had happened to her. 

After mess he slipped awav, and 
walked to Miss Conway s to 
see if the outside of that lady*s 
house could tell him any news, for 
he knew Rachel's aunt but very 


Hie Shadow on the Wall. 


ulifi^htly, and coDsequeutlj he could 
not call to make inquiries. There 
was a light iu one window upon the 
erouod floors and all the blinds were 
down except one^ in an upper room, 
and if Yaughan had not kept hia 
eyes fixed upon the lic^ht, no doubt 
hoping to see Bachers shadow, he 
might have noticed a figure which 
of course he must have recognized 
even in the dark, sitting in that 
upper window. 

Rachel was in her own room 
alone, and she saw Yaughan plainly 
enough ; how she knew him as he 
came along the street, it would be 
hard to tell. The lamps were lighted 
certainly, and there was one directly 
opposite Miss Conway*s door. Her 
heart heat very fast, and the rosy 
colour flushed into her face when 
she saw him stop before the house. 
She knew very well why he had 
come there, and to see him standing, 
and possibly shivering in the cold 
spring evening gave her very great 

pleasure, and she sat like a statue 
watchinpf him, and they ought both 
to have been very tired, for he never 
stirred for fully half an hour, the 
foolish young man! And as she 
watched, Bachel wished that it 
would not be wrong and improper 
for her to go out and speak to him, 
and tell him of the sore trouble 
that had kept her from Church 
that afternoon, and sent her to sit 
by herself in the dark. 

She knew by that wondrous in- 
stinct which love alone can give, 
that Yaughan could give her com- 
fort, and sympathy. What a pity 
that he could not know all this, 
how happy it would have made him ; 
but instead of hearing anything half 
so delicious he was obliged to turn 
away, and go back to the barracks, 
thinking very sadly, that all his de- 
votion was of no avail, and wishing 
that he had taken Miss EusseVs 
advice, and gone away. 

(To he concluded in our next) 


Studies in Scottish Literature^ 



No. VIL 


Gbitios of all shades agree that the 
appearance of Bums forms the 
greatest era in Scottish poetry. 
In the pastoral poets, Allan 
Eamsaj and Robert Fergusson, 
the chief brilliancy lay in points 
of expression more than wealth of 
thought; a shrewdness of perception, 
a knowledge of men more than of 
women, elegant sentiment, and pi- 
quancy of fancy were their charac- 
teristics. The manners of society 
satisfied their muse. True to the 
tastes of his craft, the barber-poet 
satisfied the humours of the passing 
time ; the pen in his hand, as his 
razor, never rose above a safe medi- 
ocrity. But what might have incited 
them to more original and vigorous 
compositions, their close acquaint- 
ance with the spirit of conversation, 
and the excitement of the learned 
society in the Scottish capital, had 
the effect of drawing them closer to 
their own time, and fitting their 
muse to slight sketches of common 
events, which their efforts were un- 
able to raise above the common 
level. Falconer and Beattie at- 
tained success in the classic and 
historical school. Logan and Bruce 
with great beauty produced odes 
and elegies brilliant with tender 
grace, in which they are unsur- 
passed. And although they are 
less appreciated by foreign readers 
than many subsequent poets, their 
old manners and their indefinable 

charm of expression become more 
interesting to us. Their exact 
fixedness of style and the noble 
serenity of their thoughts afford us 
a refining influence. And notwith- 
standing that their poems are sel- 
dom read except by the student, we 
cannot too persbtentiy uphold these 
firm and excellent poets, whose 
lyrical genius was among the first 
to give Scottish literature that stamp 
of originality which has so long 
been one of its distinguishing 
features. It was left to Bums to 
draw firom the spectacle of life, 
from the exhibition of human 
whims, vices, and virtues, the most 
tender and lasting elements of 
poetry. He gave to the muse the 
quickening, passionate life of so- 
ciety, firpm which the muse in the 
calm solitude of nature, and the 
easy steadiness of that time, had 
long been separated. Nearly all, it 
seems, has been said about this 
ever remarkable man and poet that 
can in tmth be said ; the materials 
are well nigh exhausted, and in no 
new light can this wonderful plough- 
man be presented; but we think 
that hitherto his works have been 
considered too much apart from 
those events' of his life which 

grossed the songs, as a relief, from 
is very heart This connection 
between his life and his songs has 
been passed over, though why it 
should have been so by the critics we 


Studies in Scottish Literature. 


•re at a loss to understand : of 
materials we have an ample store, 
how the startling events crowded 
round this marvellous son of nature, 
and how the thoughts of his ever 
active hrain escaped from him in 
stirring strains of most melodious 
song. Between these events and the 
efforts of his muse there is an in- 
separahle connection ; and here we 
confine ourselves to consider the 
poet*s works in connection with 
their surroundings. 

The prevalent idea has heen to 
consider him as a man not only 
remarkable for the readiness of his 
muse, but one who could write 
Bongs at any moment without the 
slimiest difficulty. The people 
have for long looked upon him as 
one who had a mysterious con- 
nectien with song-land, and the 
opinion is firmly rooted that he had 
no more to do to evoke the muse 
but, as it were, to touch the strings 
of his harp at any moment. Doubt- 
less an element of truth rests in 
sueh a statement, but song writing, 
like all other gifts, is beyond the 
understanding of the people. It is 
ofteaUmes needless to explain to 
some heads that song is no more 
always at one's command than 
his temper is. Given a tender, 
loving heart, that can be stirred to 
enthusiasm and driven to tem- 
porary despondency by temporary 
defeat, this soul a song will lighten 
in its heavy trials, and in success 
a song will lift it into an ether of 
soprome bliss. Thought and cul- 
ture do not form the essentials of a 
iong writer, but love, in some form 
or other, either in the dear love of 
eountry» or that dearer love still of 
the human race. Songs no doubt 
will be, and at the present time 
are, manufactured to a very great 
extent, but wherever the feelings of 
tte singer are thus worked upon by 
a prospect of palpable gain, it is not 
to be wondered that the lines, be- 
eaose of the absence of all spon- 

taneous vigour, should fall lifeless 
from the reader's memory. No 
lasting song has yet been written 
which has not had a real experience 
in the singer^s heart. Wit may be 
watched for and caught; brilliant 
sayings may be produced after de- 
liberate study; similes may be 
sought for with great cunning; but 
the points, delicacies, and ringing 
vigour of a love song must come, if 
at all, without effort, beyond control, 
naturally. A song must spring 
naturally from the poet's heart as 
an exclamation from his lips in a 
moment of surprise. Practice may 
smoothe the lines, experience may 
make the hand more skilful, but 
an episode which stirs the heart to 
its very core can alone open the 
floodgates of eternal song. Out- 
side Scottish songs this is evi- 
denced by the effusioos of Beranger 
in France, and Davis, the national 
singer of Ireland. ** My passions,'* 
said Biuns, *'when once lighted 
up, raged like so many devils, till 
they got vent in rhyme ; and then 
the conning over my verses, like a 
spell, soothed all into quiet.*' And 
in the very spuit of the enthusiasm 
of love he wrote regarding the 
heroines of one of his songs : — 
**The lightning of her eyes the 
godhead of Parnassus, and the 
witchery of her smile the divinity 
of Helicon.'* 

No wonder, then, that the actual 
songs of a man who could write 
thus in cold prose should have 
boiled with the heat of irresistible 
passion. And as the divine muse 
followed him in all the devioua 
windings of his erratic path, kept 
close to him in the midst of biting 
satire, never forsook him in all his 
earth-stained career, and clung the 
firmer in the moods of deepest re- 
morse and the gloom of despair, it 
is no occasion of surprise that their 
life-long companionship in all his 
glories and sorrows, should have 
lifted his soul in many bright hours 


Studies in Scottish Literature^ 


far beyond the trammellings of his 
own weary existence, and carried 
the hearts of thousands upon thou- 
sands of the human race into the 
perfect Elysium of song, on the 
exceeding strength and infinite 
beauty of his own loving raptures. 
His genius became what it was 
through the strong workings of his 
love. It was not in the widest 
sense original, it was not so much 
creative a.^ it was receptive. It fed 
on his own experiences, -and they 
were of sufficient number to keep 
him occupied with these thoughts ; 
his own immediate surroundings, 
which are presented to us in his 
tell-tale verse, exercised such a 
living influence upon his genius, 
that he had no need to travel far 
for themes for song. Every week 
reality brought home a fresh 
mspiration. All the localities he 
visited bear unmistakable signs 
of his presence in verses of song, 
and lines of satire. But creative 
genius is a term too narrowly used 
in its ordinary sense. While Bums 
had not that genius which creates 
a world from art, the purest fancies 
of man*s own consciousness, he 
virtually did create from his own 
exuberance of feeling, all he has 
sung; he at least re-created (and 
re-creation of reality is often the 
highest mark of genius) incidents 
of his own experience in such 
glowing realism of song, and with 
such a poetic recklessness of aban- 
donment, and such a strong^glamour 
of seeming romance, that they stand 
unequalled by the first creative song 
writers. No lasting song has yet 
been written, or probably ever will be, 
which does not convey an actual ex- 
perience of the singer 8 life. Herein 
lay his unsurpassed strength, and 
herein also lay his weakness. His 
eyes had to see before his song was 
stirred. Into the shade wland of pure 
imagination, his genius could not 
enter ; but he had a personal power 
which no imagination could equaL 

The histories of his songs form the 
best exposition of his genius. Reality 
— which is the ruin of poets all 
cold, lifeless, prosaic — ^presented to 
him, from the earliest days of his 
gay youth, down through all the 
chequered panorama of manhood, 
to his sad closing days, joys and 
delights in the very midst of humble 
circumstances, the charms of bliss 
in incidents of ordinary routine; 
he drew from the lot of his life all 
the vivifying influence that sur- 
rounded it, and the quick rushing 
love of his heart of song found 
idyllic beauty and materials for 
divine poems, which other mortals 
can only find in the ethereal dreams 
of fancy. 

Thus, although his genius was 
primarily not creative, it did form 
experiences into actual creations. 
In other minds his experiences 
would have been lost, in his they 
live for ever. His ardent and 
overwhelming passion, with strong 
creative force, wove such a fancy 
around the loves of his own heart, 
that the beloved ones will be en- 
circled with a halo of idyllic beauty, 
which ever dwelt in his super- 
abundant fancy. Men who are not 
endowed with his large capacity for 
seeing the purest poetry in one*8 
own immediate surroundings, have 
recoturse to their imagination to 
supply this want. Bums, throu'gh 
the medium of his glowing heart 
obtained ample materials in the 
faces and hearts of the women and 
men whom he saw. The study we 
propose following out is the close 
personality which his works bear. 
In doing so, we shall trace the 
causes and impulse of his works, 
and shall find that all his original 
songs had a history, each heroine 
opening different chambers of his 
heart, and that the songs were the 
servants of circumstance. 

His tale '' Tarn o*Shanter," the 
work of his more mature manhood, 
presents^ him in an interesting 


Stvdie$ in Scottish Literature* 


position, it being founded on 
tradition, and his first and last 
witch story. He wrote a plain 
version of the storj in prose before 
he contemplated composing a poem. 
The outlines of both are identical, 
and the poem combines all the 
beauties of two ghost stories which 
he related. He adheres very closely 
to the traditionary tales, and does 
not vary any fact, indeed he borrows 
several of the expressions, and ex- 
tends in ringing lines some of his 
prose descriptions. But how far 
the poetic expressions of the prose 
version which was his model, are 
portions of his own fancy, or those 
of tradition, we have no evidence 
to show. Manifestly, however, the 
additions of the poet are the 
characters Tarn and Souter Johnnie, 
who, it is said, are faithful de- 
lineations of two worthies known 
to the poet. Be the traditionally 
tale as old as it may, Bums has 
made it his own ; it is inalienably 
his. It would appear that his 
attention had never been drawn to 
the tale for poetic purposes, until 
Captain Grose desired him to 
furnish him with a witch story for the 
work on the Antiquities of Scotland, 
on which Grose was engaged. And 
not a litUe confusing and contradic- 
tory information has been reported 
and believed regarding it. That it 
was the work of one day can no 
longer be maintained, for in the 
poet's letters for three months, he 
talks of finishing, polishing, cor- 
recting and subjecting it to his 
critical discrimination. Many por- 
tions of it, if not the entire first 
rough draft, might have been 
written at once with great physical 
and mental excitement. The terrific 
fire of inspiration is visible from 
the opening to the closing lines, all 
is glowing heat, and the oneness of 
feeling throughout is that ungovern- 
able access of joy, which rages in 
die poet*8 breast but rarely. Close 
analysis will show that the tale 

proper was written firat, and that 
the introduction, as was his habit, 
was composed afterwards ; there is a 
palpable disjunction of tone, and 
transition of thought whenever we 
come to the words — "but to our 
tale." The poet*s own words ex- 
press the exact position very well, 
when he wrote that the poem showed 
** a force of genius, and a finishing 
polish *' which he despaired of ex- 

The ever beautiful and ever ex- 
pressive introduction, and the ever 
graphic colours of Bacchanalian 
rural life in all its seeming simplicity, 
are the production of one by whom 
the scenes and pictures he describes, 
are grasped with close reality ; but 
they attain a higher and more 
powerful realism when once they 
have lovingly lodged in the poet's 
brain. Yet it is no witch story 
such as Hogg would have written ; 
there is no removedness of the 
action from the writer, no attempt 
to make the action cohere with the 
sun*oundings ; all along it preserves 
the characteristic features of a 
'* sweaten," drunken dream. The^ 
surging Bohemianism is more im<. 
mediately that of the poet, than the - 
roguish waggery and disorderly 
rioting of his heroes. Prom the 
beginning, and all throughout, the 
scenery ,feelings and actions are more 
immediately those of Bums, who 
rattles on with a clinking gallop of 
Bohemian ecstasy, cmshing beneath 
him all the more glaring deceits of 
decayed superstition, and rising 
victorious with a tale reeking with. 
the fumes of an ale-house. The 
story sinks far out of mind under 
the glorification of a strong person- 
ality. This first attempt to lose 
himself in the personality of anothe 
creation, only shows that he founr 
the perfection of his own genud 
and that no reality could exist is, 
his own works, except he was thn 
prime actor and moving spirite- 
Unintentionally, probably, it is the 


Stvdics in Scottish Literature. 


most forcible satire upon the fanciful 
school of poetry, for since then no 
one with much genius has at- 
tempted to rehabilitate the freaks 
and fancies of bygone traditions in 
dressing up witch tales, his lesson 
of direct personal influence having 
broken down the flimsy, artificiid 
style of verse. " He has not gone 
back," says Carlyle, "much less 
carried us back, into that dark, 
earnest, wondering age, when the 
tradition was believed, and when it 
took its rise ; he does not attempt, 
by any new modelling of his super- 
natural ware, to strike anew that 
deep mysterious chord of human 
nature, which once responded to 
such things ; and which lives in 
us too, and will for ever live, 
though silent, or vibrating with far 
other notes, and to far different 

When he had reached his twenty- 
sixth year, and had only made a 
dozen of songs, he wrote a cantata 
under the appropriate title of the 
"Jolly Beggars.'* Here he has 
raised the frantic jollity and loose 
excitement of wandering beggai's 
from the wretched blackguardism 
and riotous abandonment of actual 
life into a living portraiture of 
wild romance. The intense sym- 
pathetic glance of the poet's eye on 
the furious joys of the lower life, has 
transfixed in glowing coloui^ the 
very hearts and souls of these 
strolling tribes. The motley crew, 
with their ** orra duddies," their 
** auld red rags," and •' rusty ra- 
piers," seem to step into the very 
lines, so graphic and dashing are 
the poet's few words. The roaring, 
vigorous music lodges in the broad 
songs. The description alone of 
this merry-making in '* Poosie Nan- 
cy's '* is left to the reader's imagi- 
nation, but even it is described by 
inference ; and the imagined des- 
cription of every one will agree in 
the main, without even the assist- 
ance of an actual visit to the verit* 

able alehouse in the town of 

One sees in its joyous songs and 
hearty lines of waggish fun the 
genifld love of the poet for his more 
unfortunate fellow-creatures ; and 
one also finds in the recklessness of 
sentiment and the utter disregard 
of fine feelings displayed through- 
out the composition, full evidence 
of the poet's own rapture for all the 
varying phases of human life, and 
all the varying shades in human 
thought. In the fast pulse-beats 
of song, the spell-bound enthusiasm, 
the witchery of movement, and the 
entrancing light of the night's re- 
velry, we can ti'ace the rich glow 
of poetic feelings which had begun 
to reach their acme in his early man- 
hood, at that time at Mossgiel. 
That it was written as the result of 
actual observation seems very evi- 
dent, although we have no evidence to 
that effect ; and the tradition of the 
town preserves many snatches of 
incident which can be weaved as 
the development and history of the 
cantata. Here again the vast powers 
of the poet are visible in creating 
out of such rough material of ob- 
servation a work which owes all its 
vitality to the originality of the 
poet. His genius preserved every 
feature, not perhaps as they ap- 
peared in reality, but as they ap- 
peared to his vivid sympathies. He 
did not so much create as he re-cre« 
ated. While we have no direct 
reference to this work in his cor- 
respondence (and as it was only 
published after . his death, this 
perhaps is not surprising), we have 
a year or so before it was first cir- 
culated among his friends a few 
references in one of his letters about 
the beggar tribe, and the sentences 
should be read in the light of this 
work. ** I have often observed, in 
the course of my experience of hu- 
man life, that every man, even the 
worst, has something good about 
him; though very often nothing else 


Studies in Scottish Literature. 


than a happy temperament of con* 
stitution inclining him to this or 
that virtue. For this reason I have 
often courted the acquaintance of 
that part of mankind known by the 
ordinary phrase of 'blackguards,* 
sometimes further than was con- 
sistent with the safety of my cha« 
facter. Though disgraced by follies, 
nay, sometimes stained with guilt, 
I have yet found among tbem, in 
not a few instances, some of the 
noblest virtues — magnanimity, ge- 
nerosity, disinterested friendsl^ip, 
and even modesty.'* How few poets 
have ploughed so laboriously for 
their weald^ in the common soil ; or 
rather, to how few poets have inci- 
dents trivial, commonplace, appeared 
so full of poetry as they did to him ! 
As illustrative of his strong capacity 
for merging himself in ^e entire 
feelings of those whom he came 
in close contact with, take the 
chorus of the Beggars* bard's second 
song : — 

*• A fig for those by law protected ! 
Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courttfor coicards were erected, 
Ohmrches built to please the priest / " 

The opinions embodied in the last 
two lines are exceedingly well put 
from a vagabond's point of view; 
the most unrestrained feast of un- 
bridled liberty could not possibly 
reach a more utter disregard for 
truth. Yet the beautiful manner 
in which the vagabondish opinions 
are expressed gives them a poetic 
relish. The strong imagination of 
of the poet in witnessing such scenes 
implanted in him, as he said^ *' an 
irresistible impulse to some idle 
vagary, such as arranging wild 
flowers in fantastical nosegays.'* 

It is interesting to compare the 
tone and the leading intention of 
these two poems with the one on 
*' Death and Dr. Hornbook ; a true 
story," which was written about the 
same period of^ but certainly prior 
10, the " JoUy Beggars." We find 

the satiric vein in its full ripeness, 
and notably we discern the roaring 
humour which befooled every cha- 
racter it Cidled into publicity. His 
genius was only inspired with two 
moods, the kindling warmth of sym- 
pathy and the passionate fire of 
love, or the laughing gas of humour 
or satire ; poet-like he was either 
all love or all gall. But satires 
more necessarily than love songs 
must be founded on fact, at least on 
such data as may seem to a poet to 
be true. This satire, as also his 
other bold satires on the abuse of 
religious observances, were the re- 
sult not of the ill- humours of the 
poet, but of actual occurrences, 
which richly deserved tlie lashings 
of the muse, and their after discon- 
tinuance showed the appropriate- 
ness of the ridicule. Although 
the poet does not merit all the 
praise he has received for the broad 
and graphic figures that move in 
his lines, because he, no more than 
a painter who has been born and 
brought up amidst the every day 
presence of peaked and jagged 
mountains or rugged rocks, deserves 
special praise for introducing such 
studies upon his canvas ; to both 
painter and poet such sights are 
the veriest facts ; but they claim our 
admiration when their pens and 
pencils clothe such objects in the 
colours of their own personality, 
and when by their genius they 
wrap up commonplace in undying 
robes. It is by the personality of 
Bums that Dr. Hornbook, Holy 
Willie, Tarn Samson, and such other 
outre beings live in verse as grisly 
phantoms through the poet's brain. 
Such acquaintances, with their sharp- 
cut characteristics, might have min- 
gled long and often with poets less 
susceptible to the satiric wealth of 
their humours without being pre- 
served ; but his eyes at once caught 
up their features and conveyed 
them with genius-like reality to 
posterity, widi greater vividness of 

T— ^ 


Stttdie$ in Scotti$h Literature. 


details than could the most un- 
tiring industry of a chronicler. 

The exceeding tenderness of the 
poet is abundantly manifested in 
his poems on several of the brute 
and inanimate creation. They rise 
far above the standard of all local 
and temporary effusions, and many 
of his well-known expressions and 
familiar lines were written on such 
simple occasions. When once every- 
day rural occurrences are reflected 
from the glowing retina of the 
poets eye, they become indelibly 
stamped on those of us all. What- 
ever common objects his muse 
touches, they are transformed as 
with a magician*s wand into objects 
of lasting beauty. The first sign 
of genius is that appreciation which 
seizes phases of life or thought be- 
fore unobserved. Burns actually 
saw what he has described, and 
actually experienced all the feelings 
of sympathy and of humour which 
he expressed. No greater estimate 
of the strength and beauty of his 
muse can be formed than by the 
fact that he has actually written 
poems which never verge on the 
ludicrous, but rise into superior ex- 
cellence, on such un poetic sub- 
jects as a sheep, and a louse, and 
a mouse. While at his daily work 
ploughing the sod, the grace of the 
muse followed him, and two of his 
most exquisite gems were made 
immediately on the occurrence of 
the incidents, when he was holding 
the plough. This is no fancy pic- 
ture, though it rivals the charms of 
old myths. Compare the poem to 
the Mouse, on turning her up in 
her nest with the plough, and the 
poem to the Mountain Daisy on 
uprooting it with the ploughshare ; 
both comprise the same number of 
nine verses, both are models of 
art, and beautiful efforts of genius. 
A oneness of feeling runs through 
them both, greatness of sympathy 
at th^ destruction, and the fellow- 
ship ^>r 'his own brooding circum- 

stances of life with theirs. In such a 
view the personality ofhis writings is 
inexpressibly sweet : how the warm- 
blooded poet in his softest moods 
found solace in the occurrences of 
lowly nature, how his heart went 
forth in the outswelling fulness of 
love to tho *'wee, sleeket, cowrin, 
tim*rous beastie,'* and the '* wee, 
modest, crimson- tipped flower.** In 
their destruction by the plough in 
the spring and autumn, the poet 
found flt emblems of his native 
querulous feelings. The period at 
which he wrote these poems was an 
eventful one in his career, and in 
the closing verses of each we find 
some heavy clouds of the thunder- 
storm which hung over him. It is, 
we think, just to attribute them ta 
the tender melancholy which pos- 
sessed him in consequence of his 
connection with the woman who 
was thereafter his wife ; for after 
their marriage the poet did not 
return to such subjects with such 
mournful sympathy. Every poem 
of his is affected or influenced by 
his outward circumstances. His 
lines to a Louse contain humour as 
broad as Sterne's, but in the last two 
verses he falls into a moralizing 
strain, so that from such an unin- 
viting subject he produced a stanza 
beginning — 

" O wad some power the giftie gie us/' 

which has long passed into pro- 
verbial repute. Poesy inspires him 
on seeing a wounded hare, on scarin*^ 
water-fowl in a loch ; and on a new 
year's morning he bursts into strains 
of sympathetic feeling over the asso- 
ciations and usefulness of his old 
horse. Circumstances the mosb 
slender fitted closely into his own 
heart, daily occurrences were in his 
warmth of sympathy recorded in 
verse, which the world has de- 
servedly magnified. Here the poet 
was true to his own feelings, and 
his open force of originality in such 


Studies in Scottish Literature^ 


a field of poetry most heartily de- 
mands our admiration. He imi- 
tated no school hut his own, and 
he has no imitators. In the remoto- 
nes8 and quietness of his country 
life this poet of nature followed the 
dictates of his own heart, and es- 
tablished a school of natural poetiy 
more lasting than he could have 
done if he had been a member .of a 
coterie of literary men in a city. 
And to draw genuine poetry from 
the personal surroundings of man 
is not so easy as to merit the* pooh- 
poohings of present day critics. 
Most probably those poems of a 
true man to the things which more 
immediately concerned the plough- 
man in his actual work, will at 
sometime be considered more in- 
teresting and life-like of the poet 
when other and more ambitious 
poems will be passed over. 

Those classic poems of the Scot- 
tish peasantry, '' Hallowe*en/' and 
"The Cotters Saturday Night." 
were part of the good writers 
work which he accomplished in 
1785, and were written with the 
▼iew to increasing his poems for 
fais projected publication. The 
first poem bears all the marks of 
having been written in such a mood ; 
it contains but a faint glimmer of 
the poet's humour, has none of his 
vigour ; but it is a graphic sketch of 
bye-gone rural manners on the 
occasion it describes. In expres- 
sive lines and words, here and 
there we meet his master hand, 
and at the end of the poem we 
find that exquisite verse — 


Whyles owre a linn tlio burnie plays, 

Ais through tlie glen it wimpl't; 
Wliyles rouud a rocky scaur it strays ; 

Whyles in a well it dimpl't ; 
Chyles glittered to t!ie nij^htly rays, 

Wi' bickenng. dancing dazzle ; 
\Vliyle8 cookit underneath the braes, 

Btflow the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night." 

Firmer, more eager and sympa- 

thetic is the bard in the '' Cotter*s 
Saturday Night," his soul enters 
into the scene, and its vigorous 
eloquence rushes forth in nearly 
ewery verse. His love is kindled, 
and his poem consequently lives. 
The one idea which led him to 
think of such a subject, was the 
phrase, ** Let us worship God," 
which he thought was peculiarly 
venerable when used by the sober 
head of the family in introducing 
family worship. And his brother 
Gilbert tells us that it is to this 
feeling we owe the poem. While 
that sentiment may have drawn his 
attention to the subject, it is in 
execution equalled, if not surpassed 
in beauty and strength, as there 
portrayed, by his love for Scotland, 
the love of his couuti*y s patriot, 
Wallace, and the love of the com- 
mon people to whom he belonged. 
His eyes were the first to observe 
the beauty that rested over the 
peasant 8 home on Saturday nights, 
and no poet hereafter with that 
poem before him, will make an at- 
tempt where Bums has excelled. 

It is in his songs, however, that 
we find actual circumstances melted 
into thrilling, heart-satisfying lyrics; 
yet it is inexpressibly sad to reflect 
that the unfortunate turns of his 
career are to be attributed to the 
very same cause which produced 
his soul charged, moving songs — 
his too ready impressibleness to the 
winning faces and charming man- 
ners of women. In his original 
love songs we trace the very words, 
the very growth, the quenchless 
intensity, and the irrepressible 
ardour of his love for the softer sex. 
From the juvenile rill of thoughtful 
sentiment, we can follow his lot 
through the outpourings of his in- 
most heart, the quickening river- 
like flow of maturer passions, down 
through its rapids of wild uncon- 
trol, until it reaches the ocean of 
eternity in grand outbursts of strong 
love. The songs are ever human 


Studies in Scottish Literature. 


and true, beeause of tho natural 
and unaffected women whom he met 
in hi9"life*8 sequester'd scene:" 
this] vitality is not owing to the 
observance of any rules of art, but 
because he wrote after those models 
which an ever-loving heart creates 
for itself. Now that our land is 
flooded with song, we are too apt to 
underrate his originality ; properly 
to appreciate it, we require to study 
the song literature of his time, and 
that which preceded it, to observe 
its poverty of thought and weak- 
ness of expression; after him, songs 
obtained a fresh vitalitv; in his 
hands actual experiences of life 
were woven into song. Thus they 
possess all the beauty of song and 
the force of hard lined reality. He 
tells us that on all his early love 
songs there was inscribed a legend 
of his heart. A large cluster of 
women at once rise to our remem- 
brance when we think of these 
productions. And who can number 
the loves of his heart ? There are 
those women of his song : Ellison 
Begbie and Mary Morrison ; Chloris 
and Clarinda ; Highland Mary and 
the lovely Davies; Jessie Le wars and 
Pbillis McMurdo ; Maria Riddell, 
Peggy Chalmers and Pegiiy Thom- 
son ; Tibbie Steen, and his own 
Jean. The names of these rural 
women along with his are recorded 
in the books of fame. And the 
varying adventures of his heart 
among these women, are given ex- 
pression to in the varying tones and 
feelings of the songs he wrote 
under their inspiration. That all 
his original love songs were the re- 
sult of actual encounters of love 
with women is very evident, and 
the poet himself tells us that when 
engaged in dressing up old songs 
for the Edinburgh publication, he 
was in the habit of going into the 
company of women for.the purpose of 
catching inspiration. But let us look 
a little more closely at the circum- 
stances of some of these memorable 

effusions. His sweetly natural song, 
^* I love my Jean,*' or better known 
perhaps by the first line, ** Of a* 
the airts the wind can blaw,'* was 
written for his wife, '* out of compli- 
ment,'* as he phrases it, during his 
honeymoon, which he spent at 
EUisland, while she lived at Moss- 
giel. This explains many expres- 
sions of tlie song, and gives the 
passion of the verses additional 
strength. The fulness and freeness 
of the feelings, stronger and more 
exulting than in any other, are to 
be attributed to the happiness of 
his marriage at last, and to the 
fixedness of his married love. He 
may be more artistic in other songs, 
but he is nowhere so hearty, so 
piu'ely lovable, so exultant. The 
numerous songs in honour of 
Clarinda, are like glossaries to the 
excited feelings of the poet in his 
platonic friendship; we find him 
relievinghimself of his despondency 
at her absence abroad, by composing 
the delightful pastoral "My Nannie's 
awa ; " and in the continual recur- 
rence of his thoughts to his absent 
friend, he throws his feelings, sym- 
pathizing with her mission, into the 
song of ** Wandering Willie ; *' and 
the tragic tale of love is concentrated 
with the rapid gush of the poet's 
own eloquence in bis '* Aefond kiss 
and then we sever." It contains 
one of the most pathetic and deeply 
philosophic verses in the whol^ of 
song literaturo, which correctly ex- 
presses the position of the singer 
and the heroine : 

" Had we never loved sas kindly, 
Had we never loved sae blindly ! 
Never met — or never parted. 
We Lad ne*er been brokenhearted.'* 

Notably his songs to Clarinda 
and Chloris were love messages for 
theur eyes and hearts only. The 
song, '* The Banks and Braes o' 
Bonnie Dooo," was composed out 
of sympathy at the sad fate of a 
hapless beautiful lady friend. What 


Studies in Scottish Literature. 


sn irresistible lover Bums ytbb ! He 
not only captivated women by the 
glow of his talk and the wealth of 
his fancy, but when absent from 
them he paid them compliments by 
sending them songs composed in 
their own honour. Such songs of 
love as no lover since .has equalled! 
See his ''Young Peggy,'' *' The 
Lass of Ballochmyle,*' *' The Banks 
of the Devon,'* '* Lovely Davies," 
"Where Braving Angry Winters 
Hours," &c., which he sent to Uie 
ladies who inspired tlie songs, and 
who acted their narratives, as other 
men now send letters. There is 
exquisitely tender devotion and 
purity of love, akin to a religious 
depth, in "Afton Water," which 
would appear to have been written 
as an evening hymn to his *' High- 
land Mary;" the Mary there ad- 
dressed is evidently the same as 
fhe whom he has celebrated in 
the hallowed, ecstatic strains of 
" My Mary, dear departed Shade." 
The most cai*eless reader of his 
works cannot but have noticed 
that the bard very frequently refers 
in poetic raptures to the bums and 
rivers of his bu'thplace. Early in 
his career as a singer he expressed 
the strength of his love for the 
*' fertile banks of Irvine," the *• ro- 
mantic woodlands and sequestered 
scenes of Ayr, and the healthy moun- 
tainous source and winding sweep 
of Doon," and he modestly records 
that it shall be his future endea- 
vour to sing of their pastoral beau- 
ties as other poets had formerly 
simg of other rivers. That he has 
attained that patriotic object his 
works bear unmistakable attesta- 
tion, the river Doon is now classic. 
All his pastoral songs contain a 
downright accuracy of descrip- 
tion; Uie minutiss and variety of 
colours are of such a nature as 
could only have been achieved by 
one who actually witnessed all, and 
more than what he sang. Thus in 
his ** Com Bigs" we have a most 

striking and faithful account of a 
harvest night, and never since has 
it been so joyfully described, while 
the whole influence of the poem 
rests with the heroine, Annie ; the 
moonlit harvest scenery of that 
night became indelibly impressed 
on his memory, as he saw it 
through the force of his love for 
her. The arch manners of rural 
courtship are naively and piquantly 
illustrated in the song, *' Whistle,, 
and 111 come to you, my lad/' 
which was written as a memeuta 
of one of his loves whom he said 
was '' a fair dame whom the Graces 
have attired in witchcraft, and whom 
the Loves have armed with light- 
ning." But around ** The Gowden 
Locks of Anna," there is the in- 
terest of a too true tragedy, the 
recklessness of the actual incidents 
having become joined in the verse. 
Even listen to what he says of the 
heroine of *' My Handsome Nell," 
which he wrote when he had not 
nearly reached his majortiy : — " I 
composed it in a wild enthusiasm of 
passion, and to this hotu* I never 
recollect it but my heart melts and 
my blood sallies at the remem- 
brance." The depressing events 
of life, though they cooled his 
ardour for a time, could never 
quench the wild enthusiasm of his 
nature ; in song-land he found en- 
couragement and the spirit of cheer, 
and although but the space of a few 
days had to elapse before he reached 
the terminus of this life, we find 
him in the interim soothing his 
disquieted feelings in the muse of 
an old love song. He died leaving 
a love song unfinished, and his 
first composition in youth-hood 
was a love song. But we have 
overreached our limited space, and 
we must draw to a close. 

Thus we see that Bui*ns was 
no regular maker of songs, but 
sung with all the native enthusiasm 
of his heart his own feelings and 
experiences in sweet undying 


Studies in Scottish Literature. 


lyrics. We have his own words 
that he looked upon women as god- 
desses deserving and command- 
ing the worship of the poet in un- 
dying song. What he wrote of 
" My Nannie, O." tliat ** it was at 
the time genuine from my own 
heart," may be written of all his 
original songs. The closest study 
of his works brings the clearer to 
light his surpassing genius ; and 
the thought which strikes us at 
first, and clings to us with in- 
creased strength as we become more 
intimate with his spirit and his 
works, is the elevating beauty and 
lasting power with which he re- 
moved everyday life into the ether 
of the romance of his poetic soul. 
He is the acknowledged poet-king 
of the poor. He is the song-guide 
of all the weary labourers ; his 
music is a shelter to the aching- 
!hearted and downcast, as the 
shadow of a great rock in a weary 
land. The power of his name is 
•even greater to-day than it was 
-fifty years ago. The name of 
Bobert Bums is an eternal one. 
He is a great consoler and in- 
spirer. And as the destiny of his 
own life was wrought out in the 
comparative quietness and seclu- 
sion of the Lowlands, every event, 
apparently trivial, conspiring to 
mould his outward life and inner 
life with as much force as the more 
forcible and impressive occurrences 
of the present day in all its bustle 
could have effected ; so in his works 
he picked up the shattered frag- 
ments of the threads of his experi- 
ences and wove them into webs, 
* which possess not only the genuine 
vigour of reality, but dso the beau- 
teous colouring of nature's delicate 
handiwork. His songs last be- 
cause they have enduring life 
within their lines. They alone of 
Scottish songs fire us with the 
glowing heat of a poet*s direct 
intercourse ; their fervour is as 
strong as if they were newly coined 

to-day ; their manners are those of 
all time, for they are a faithful 
transcript of actual and natural 
manners. Their beauty as well as 
their reality is historic. 

His songs had a patriotic gush of 
love for his dear native land, which 
has not been equalled in any subse- 
quent writer, poetic or prose. He 
loved his country, its history, its 
heroes, with all the ardour of his 
patriotic heart. Fatherland, through 
his exceeding affection, became a 
distinct personality ; or, &she speaks 
of himself in his dedication, *'A 
Scottish Bard, proud of the name, 
and whose highest ambition is to 
sing in his country's service, I come 
to claim the common Scottish name 
with you, my illustrious countiy- 
men ; and to tell the world that I 
glory in the title.** And how boldly, 
yet most truly, does the poet speak 
of himself in these few vigorous 
words — " The poetic genius of my 
country found me as the prophet- 
bard Eiislui did Elijah, at the plough, 
and threw her inspiring mantle over 
me. She bade me sing the loves, 
the joys, the rural scenes, and rural 
pleasures of my natal soil, in my 
native tongue; I tuned my wild, 
artless notes as she inspired." But 
he does not appear as a poet in a 
beggar*s shoes, or as he right nobly 
put it, '* that path is so hackneyed 
by prostituted learning, that honest 
rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor do 
I present this address with the venal 
soul of a servile author, looking for 
a continuation of those favours : 
I teas brfid to the plough and am inde- 
pendent." He sung for his own 
pleasure, and for the service of his 
country ; and so long as he had the 
health to follow the plough he led 
all, high and low, to understand in 
most plain language, that although 
he was also a bard, his independence 
of manhood was not to be tampered 
with. There is something humor- 
ous and satiric in his proclaiming 
to the noblemen and aristocracy of 


Studies in Scottish Literature. 


the Caledonian Hunt, and through 
them to the entire race of nobles 
and titled heads of Scotland, that 
he is a ploughman, and, therefore, 
he is not dependent on their pa- 
tronage. By this masterly stroke 
he ra^ed himself to their level ; by 
his bold honesty he reversed the 
position so long established between 
patrons and dedicator ; in this one 
passage he lifted himself, the living 
bard, above the platform whereon 
sat his audience. Bred to the 
plough and independent! yes, for 
in that occupation he had wooed 
sweet poesy, and in following the 
plough he had caught the natural 
heauty and vigour of the pastoral 

But it is the natural spontane- 
ous lyric song which sprang freely 
from the poet in the remote seclu- 
sion and comparative calm of the 
last century Uiat affects us most. 
It is the picture of a true pastoral 
landscape, with truepastoral figures, 
with true pastoral hearts, touched 

to their very depths with the gush 
of genuine feelings, that inspires us 
wiUi strong enthusiasm, mingled 
with strange wonder, for the reality 
and unfading power of the poet's 
songs. A sterling heart moves in 
them all. None of that sickly sen- 
timentalism of a courtly atmosphere, 
nor the constraint or cultured 
phraseology of polite society, are to 
be found there. All are vigorous 
with the innate beauty and love of 
the poet for the rustic maidens and 
original rural characters of his ao* 
quaintance. And the manner in 
which, with his own strength of 
love, he has raised his friends and 
lovers from the lowliness of their 
low estate into the poetic regions 
of undying fame, will/or ever excite 
the admiration and awe of critics 
and poets. Bums indeed possessed 
the very heart of a genius which 
raised the incidents and surround- 
ings of his own experience into the 
highest ether of everlasting eong! 





By W. Ekightok. 

Ths railwa j which nuui from Naples 
to Salerno passes close to Poittpeii. 
ll is the most usual means of ap- 
proach to the honed city in these 
days. Eighteen hundred years ago, 
in the month of Augnst, the in- 
habitants were buying and selling, 
feasting and mourning after their 
wont. Some fitted out galleys for 
distant ventures, others brought 
their wares to the crowded marts, 
others were eagerly preparing for 
new shows and gladiatorial fights, 
long interdicted by an edict of Nero, 
when sudden destruction came upon 

The people of Pompeii prided 
themselves upon the beauty of the 
scenery surrounding their city, as 
we]l as upon their own personal 
beauty. In Sparta, we know that 
it was penal to be too fat. The 
man who sinned in this respect was 
liable to be publicly whipped until 
he regained normal and legal pro- 
portions. In Egypt, too, corpulency 
was abhorred. The water of the 
Nile was supposed to have a fat- 
tening effect, and hence the priests 
would not allow the bull Apis to 
drink it. A well was specially sunk 
for him. 

Certain it is that the remains of 
no specially fat people have been 
found in the ruins of Pompeii. We 
have no proof that obesity was 
penal in Pompeii, as in Sparta, but 
we might reasonably conclude that 
the very fat would be the least 
likely to succeed in escaping when 
the town was destroyed. 

Few benefactors of the human 
race have added more to its sum of 
intellectual enjoyment, than the 
Italian peasant who, in 1748, in 
sinking a well, came accidentally 
upon a painted chamber of old Pom* 
peii — a chamber containing statucB 
and other remains of antiquity. 
He was the unconscious means of 
opening up new and keen souroea 
of pleasure to the arohfleologist, the 
historian, the student of life, Of 
customs, and of religion. 

Even the very site of Pompeii 
was unknown until that accidental 
discovery. It seems surprising that 
it should have been so — that a great 
city, once celebrated and populous, 
should have been lost to the tradi- 
tion of the neighbourhood, but so 
it was. 

The railway to Salerno skirts the 
beautiful Bav of Naples, and a 
succession of lovely views opens up 
as the traveller is whisked along» 
too rapidly to enable him to enjoy 
them as he would wish. 

Ischia bounds the view to the 
north-west and Capri to the south- 
west, the two island extremities of 
the bay, and between the two lies 
an expanse of deep-blue water and 
lovely sk}', which when seen in the 
early spring, and at rest, is a vision of 
beauty never to be forgotten. Vesu- 
vius towers aloft on the left hand, 
and Portici and Sesina, built on 
the ancient Herculaneum, Torre 
del Greco, and Torre dell*Aunun- 
ziata, are all passed in succes- 
sion. Everywhere there are traces 




of Tolcaoic action, the very cliffs 
that border the sea-shore are com- 
posed of lava« sometimes exhibiting 
a columnar structure. All this dis- 
trict has Buffered so frequently and so 
severely from earthquakes and from 
eruptions, that an Italian proverb 
says, *' Naples sins and Torre pays 
for it.** xet the whole coast is alive 
with humanity — the old roan and 
the old woman, the youth, the girl, 
the child; and all by thousands! 
Hour mills and manufactories of 
maccaroni are constantly met with, 
and there is no mistaking the long 
lines of the national food hung out 
like ropes to dry. 

A little further on along the 
coast ia Gastellamare, a town of 
18,000 inhabitants, built on the site 
of the ancient Stabiie, where the 
Bder Pliny perished in that erup- 
tion which destroyed Pompeii. He 
was sleeping at the villa of his friend 
Pomponianus, when his friends woke 
him, and he found the courtyard, 
that led to his apartment filled with 
stones and ashes. A hurried con- 
sultation was held as to which was 
the safest, to trust to the tottering 
houses, to seek safety in the fields, 
or to attempt escape by sea. " In 
tbis distress," the Younger Pliny 
proceeds, '^they resolved for the 
nelds, as the less dangerous, a reso- 
lution which, while the rest of the 
company were hurried into it by 
their fears, my uncle (the Elder 
Pliny) embraced upon cool and de- 
liberate consideration. They sallied 
forth then, having pillows tied with 
napkins upon their heads. This 
was their sole defence against the 
storm of stones that fell around 
them. It was now day everywhere 
else, but there *a deeper darkness 
prevailed than night could have sup- 
plied when most obscure. Torches 
and other artificial lights tended to 
dissipate the gloom a little." 

They went down further along 
thediore,to see if they might safely 
put out to sea. But they found 

the waves running high and bois- 
terous. There was no escape that 
way. " Then my uncle, having drank 
a draught or two of cold water, 
threw himself upon the ground, 
upon a cloth spread for him, being 
weary, when immediatelv the flames, 
and a strong smell of sufphur, which 
was the forerunner of the flames, 
dispersed the company, and obliged 
him to rise again abruptly. 

" He raised himself up, being 
supported by two of his slaves, 
and immediately fell down dead^ 
suffocated, as I conjecture, by the 
gross and noxious vapours, for he 
always had weak lungs, and was 
subject to a difficulty in breathing. 

'' As soon as it was light agaia, 
which was not until the third day 
after this melancholy accident, his 
body was found entire without any 
mai^s of violence upon it, exactly 
in the posture in which he had 
fallen, looking rather like a man 
asleep than one dead.*' 

This was in the year 79. But 
Pompeii had been visited by another 
terrible volcanic calamity in 63, 
which destroyed many of the houses 
in the town. Seneca tells us that 
the eruption of 63 swallowed up 600 
sheep, destroyed many places in the 
vicinity, and drove many people 
mad with terror. In the course of 
a few months, however, the inhabi- 
tants who had fled began to return 
to the city, and to repair the damage 
done, when another earthquake and 
eruption occurred in 64. And the 
injury then done had not been com- 
pleteljr repaired when, in 79, that 
eruption occurred which destroyed 
Pompeii, overwhelming it with 
showers of pumice stones and ashes, 
the weight of which broke in most 
of the roofs, which were composed 
of wood or tiles. Pliny describes 
the beginning of the eruption in 
one of his celebrated letters to 
Tacitus thus : — '* A cloud first arose. 
I cannot give you a more exact de- 
scription of its figure than by com- 




paring it to a pine tree. The lower 
part was like the trunk, and at the 
top it extended in the form of 
branches. Sometimes this cloud 
was bright and fiery, sometimes 
dark and opaque. The shocks of 
earthquake were so particularly 
violent that night, that they seemed 
to threaten everything and every- 
body with instant destruction. 
When morning came, after this 
terrible night, the light was faint 
and languid. The buildings around 
us tottered. Though we stood upon 
open ground, yet as the place was 
narrow and confined, there was no 
remaining there without danger. 
"We therefore quitted the town. 
The people followed us in conster- 
nation. They pressed in great 
crowds about us on our way out. 
Having got to a convenient distance 
' from the city, we stood still, in the 
midst of a most dangerous and dread- 
ful scene. The chariots which we 
had ordered to be drawn out, were 
so agitated backwards and forwards, 
though upon the most level ground, 
that we could not keep them steady. 
The sea seemed to roll back upon 
itself, and to be driven from its 
banks by the convulsive motions of 
the earth. It is certain at least 
that the shore was considerably en- 
larged, and that several sea-animals 
were left upon it. On the other 
side a black and dreadful cloud, 
bursting with a vapour of flame, in 
the form of a serpent, darted out 
long trains of fire, resembling flashes 
of lightning, but much larger." 

Pliny goes on to describe how 
even the island of Capreas and- the 
promontory of Misenium were 
covered with this great cloudy which 
seemed to embrace the sea. His 
mother begged him to leave her, 
and to save his life by flight. But 
he took her hand and insisted on 
escaping with her. The ashes fell 
upon them as they fled along 
the high road, a great multitude 
hurrying along from the city behind 

them. They left the high road by 
his advice, lest she should be crushed 
to death, and the scene which passed 
before them was one with few paral- 
lels in history. — " Nothing was to 
be heard but the shrieks and screams 
of women and children, nothing 
was to be seen but a blackness 
terrible and awful. Not a ray of 
light, except from the burning 
mountain in fitful gleams. Some of 
the women and children called aloud 
for husbands, brothers, fathers, 
sons — and in reply came the cries 
of men, one lamenting his own fate, 
another the destruction of his fam- 
ily ,"some wishing to die only from 
the fear of dying. The greater pare 
imagined that the last great eternal 
night was come, that was to destroy 
gods and men and the world to- 
gether. Heavy showers of ashes 
fell upon us all this time, which we 
were obliged every now and then to 
shake ofiT, otherwise we should have 
been buried in the heap.'* 

Wheu at length the sun ap- 
peared, the face of the country was 
so changed that hardly a landmark 
could be recognized. This is the 
description of an eye-witness, and 
there can be no doubt of its truth. 
And now, what a contrast, when 
one reads this description, with all 
nature at rest — with the earth and 
sea and sky full of beauty, calm 
and peaceful! There is, perhaps, 
no lovelier spot on the earth's sur- 
face. Everything around speaks of 
quiet, calm, peaceful beauty. Doubt- 
less the sea can be rough. The 
air can whistle and howl and roar, 
as it sweeps like a demon over the 
bay, lashing the sea to fury, when 
the smaller waves, the pecore^ give 
place to the great eavalloni, the 
white horses, that roll in to the 
shore, on the billows* breast, ir- 
resistibly strong and furious. But 
it was not so when I went to 
Pompeii. All nature slumbered. 
Earth and sea and sky were full of 
beauty and of peace. 




And which one of ns, amidst the 
scene described hy the Younger 
Pliny, might not also have thought 
that the eml of the world was 
come? — When the earth was 
reeling to and fro like a drunken 
man, when the mountain was belch- 
ing forth flame and ashes — when the 
sky was black and covered with a 
great darkness at mid-day, and the 
sea was tossed about like a play- 
thing by the earth in labour, dashed 
hither and thither without any re- 
gard to its former boundaries! — 
and when all this was accompanied 
by the roar of unusual noises, by 
death and destraction, and havoc 
raging on all sides ! Truly, it must 
have been an awful scene ! 

It takes about an hour to get to 
Pompeii from Naples by rail — an 
hour full of beauty and interest. 
The town was built originally on 
old volcanic rocks, a place of some 
importance both from its com- 
merce and from its attractions as a 
watering-place. During the time 
of the Eepublic in Bome, both 
Hercolaneum and Pompeii were 
governed by their own laws, and 
ranked as municipia^ by which they 
gained many privileges. The inhabi- 
tants called themselves, not Eomans, 
but Campanians, and were proud of 
the beauty of their towns, proud of 
their physical advantages, proud of 
their privileges, and of the beauty 
of their women. 

They were often disposed to be 
turbulent, however, and to fight 
amongst themselves. In the time 
of Cicero a Eoman military colony 
had been established in the suburbs 
of Pompeii, in order to keep the 
peace, a measure to which the 
Pompeians strenuously objected. 
Under Nero the town was a 
Itoman colony. Its suburbs were 
the favourite residence of Cicero, 
and there he wrote his '* Offices,'* 
and received as guests Augustus, 
Balbus, Pansa, and Uirtius. 

lu the year 59 of our era, a 

riot occurred between the citizens 
of Pompeii and those of the neigh- 
bouring town of Nuceria. The 
latter were defeated. Many were 
slain. The Nucerians appealed to 
Borne, Nero gave sentence against 
Pompeii, ordered Begulus and other 
ringleaders to be banished, and for 
ten years interdicted all public 
spectacles, games, and theatrical 

It was in 63, whilst suffering from 
this edict, that the city was first 
severely injured by nn earthquake; 
but it was not till 79, that it was 
absolutely destroyed, overwhelmed 
with ashes and showers of pumice- 
stones, together with rivers of dense 
black mud from the volcano, which 
curdled through the streets, in- 
sidiously creeping into such reces- 
ses as tlie subtle ashes had failed to 
penetrate. The inhabitants were 
engaged in all the bustle of an 
election for municipal officers at 
the time. New sediles and decem- 
viri were to be chosen. Influential 
citizens and voters were canvassing 
for their favourite candidates, and 
party spirit ran high. The forum, 
the temples, and the theatres were* 
thronged with an eager multitude. 

The great majority of the inhabi- 
tants escaped by land or by sea, 
some fifteen hundred or so perishing 
out of a population of about twenty 
thousand, and, when the eruption* 
was at an end, and all was quiet 
again, many of the miserable inhabi- 
tants, who had survived thecatas* 
trophe, returned to dig into the 
ruins, to try and recover their lost 
property. The larger part of the- 
gold and silver, the richer marbles, 
the bronzes and the statues, were- 
thus removed. 

Marks of these visits have beea 
found in excavating the city in these 
latter days — holes broken in walls^ 
— ^passages made through the ashes' 
and scorise, and evidences of dig 
ging and partial exploration.. 
Many of the houses were evidently 




inhabited again for a time. In 
473 however another dreadful erup- 
tion of the mountain took place, 
and the site was finally abandoned. 

When the street of Mercury was 
cleared, in the course of the modem 
explorations, a political caricature 
was discovered on the wall of a 
house, evidently having reference 
to the quarrel between Niiceria 
and Pompeii, and the consequences 
of that quarrel. This caricature 
had beneath it the inscription — 
*^ Campaniy victoria una cum Nu* 
cerinist periiatisJ' Other inscrip- 
tions in chalk upon the walls of 
the houses, relative to municipal 
elections and other local matters', 
are common. So that the town is 
presented to us now very much as 
it was when shut up by the erup- 
tion, with all the evidences of in- 
dividual, social and political life 
in varied forms, at work, just as 
they were when Nero was ruling 
in Home, and Christianity was 

It was not till 1748 that the 
town wad discovered. In 1755, the 
amphitheatre was cleared out in the 
south - eastern corner ; and since 
then the excavations have been pro- 
ceeded with continuously, some- 
times languidly, sometimes with 
energy. Signer Fiorelli, under 
whose superintendence the work 
has latterly been carried on, pressed 
it forwards with energy and judg- 
ment. Ten years ago he thought 
that, at the rate at which it was 
then proceeding, the entire town 
would have been disinterred in 
twenty years ; but this estimate 
requires modification now. It will 
probably still take twenty years 
before the work is complete, at the 
present rate of progress. 

Most of the objects of interest 
found in the town were removed to 
the museum in Naples, and may be 
seen there. Latterly, however, 
another museum, still on a small 
scale, has been established in Pom- 

peii itself, near the Marine Gate, 
the usual entrance for visitors, and 
there may be seen implements of 
domestic life, curiosities, ornaments, 
and a few casts of the bodies of 
those who perished, now turned 
into stohe, just in the attitudes in 
which they lost their lives. The 
walls of the city are about two 
miles in circuit, enclosing about 
a hundred and sixty acres, an area 
somewhat similar to that of modern 

A walk through the deserted 
streets, the ruined houses, the tem- 
ples, the theatres, the forum, and 
the barracks, is like a walk amongst 
the dead. The impression haunts 
one at every corner that the people 
have just left, and may return at • 
any moment. Here, in the priests' 
dining-room in this temple, a priest- 
was found buried alive in the act of 
dining off a fowl. Generally speak- 
ing, the most comfortable room in 
each of the temples was that in 
which the priests dined. There, 
in the prison of the barracks, four 
of the soldiers were found, evi- 
dently under punishment at the 
time, with their feet fast in the 
stocks. Think of their agony as 
the darkness increased, the relent- 
less shower fell faster, and yet more 
fast — ^the courtyards and the bar- 
racks became gradually deserted, 
and they were left to die slowly with 
their feet in the stocks! And 
there, again, another soldier was 
found, one on guard, who perished 
at his post: a noble instance of 
devotion to duty unto death. The 
wine-shops and the bakers', the 
merchants' and the bankers', all 
remain just as the destroying 
shower found them and left them. 
There were the large earthern jars 
that contained the wine, the mills 
for grinding the fiour, the bread in 
the oven, and the bankers' strong 
boxes, with the haberdashers' coun- 
ters, all ready to carry on the busi- 
ness, if only that destroying shower 




would cease ! A wouderful scene ! 
Ohofits haunt us at every corner — 
the ghosts of those who came and 
went, who bought and sold, and 
drank and ate, who fooled and were 
fooled to the top of their bent! 
Ay! and most melancholy of all, 
there, too, is the recess behind the 
altar in the temple, or in the ^ery 
statue of the god, where the lying 
priest gave forth responses that 
were supposed to come from the 
god himself. And crowds stood 
below listening to it. Devout 
women and children, full of faith ; 
the smug citizen doing the genteel 
and the pious ; and the philosopher 
making believe to believe it all ! 
What a truly melancholy picture ! 

In the gardens the arrangement 
of the trees was generally in straight 
lines. Flowers were cultivated, ap- 
parently more on account of their 
emell than of their beauty of colour. 
The rose, the violet, the lily and the 
poppy were the favourites. Statues 
throwing out water, either from an 
urn or from the mouth, were in 
general use. Marble seats were 
placed in' these gardens, and mov- 
able beds of flowers on wheels were 
common. They contained fruit 
trees, vines, melons, and cucumbers, 
and were evidently removed from 
place to place according to the 
weather, to taste, or to caprice. 
These were often covered with 
finmea of isinglass. 

In the interior of the houses, the 
atrium^ usually of an oblong square 
form, appears to have been the 
common sitting-room of the family. 
There the occupations of em- 
broidery, spinning, and weaving 
had been carried on by the ladies, 
or by the slaves under the ladies' 
directions. The luxurious refine- 
ments of the Empire, however, had 
wellnigh banished the more useful 
employments, and the atrium^ when 
Pompeii was overwhelmed, was a 
reception-room merely, sometimes 
Afioed by curtains into various 

compartments, and sometimes serv- 
inn^ simply as an antechamber to the 
various reception rooms. The Jarett 
or waxen images of the ancestors of 
the family, were usually kept in the 
hinder part of the atrium^ and often 
too a hearth was there, on which a 
sort of sacred fire was maintained, 
ever burning. 

The houses were usually built 
with high sloping roofs of wood or 
of broad tiles, with an open space 
in the centre, to admit light to the 
inner apartments. The walls of the 
rooms were painted, and decorated 
with bas-reliefs, whilst the floors 
were often mosaics. In houses of 
superior pretensions only, the outer 
doors were furnished with a beU. 

Porters preceded knockers. Some- 
times the porter had a fierce chained 
dog to assist him; but very fre- 
quently the dog was only a painted 
one, or one done in mosaic, as in 
the Pompeian house of the Crystal 
Palace — Si gnor Abbato's restoration 
— with which we are all familiar. 
It wonld appear that, in certain 
cases, the porterhimself was chained, 
as well as the dog. This may have 
been, however, when the porter was 
a slave and in pnnishment. In one 
case we find the porter in a green 
livery, with a cherry-coloured gir- 
dle ; at least ho is so represented. 
It seems to have been his office to 
sprinkle and sweep the floors with 
besoms of twigs, and he had a per- 
forated pot or vase with which to 
sprinkle the floor, exactly similar 
to what may be seen in use in hun- 
dreds of shops in London at tho 
present day. 

Juvenal describes the master of 
the house, who is expecting a guest 
of some distinction, as threatening 
the porter with a stick, and calling 
to him : " Sweep the pavements, 
clean the columns, and brush away 
the cobwebs." Horace mentions 
the fall of a curtain loaded with 
dust over the dinner-table, to the 
great discomfiture and discomfort 




of the gaests ; and Platarch men- 
tions the fact that if a visitor en- 
tered a Roman house, without being 
expected, he would probably find 
the family dishabilli^ foul dishes 
lying about upon the floor, and 
everything in disorder. 

The bedrooms were small, some- 
times vaulted, most frequently with- 
out windows, but sometimes with 
a little window placed near the 
roof; with alcoves for the bedsteads, 
tesselated pavements for floors, and 
paintings on the walls. I think 
every one would agree nowadays 
in considering them dark, gloomy, 
confined, and uncomfortable. The 
majority of the poorer middle class 
in London are better lodged in this 
respect than a wealth}" nobleman 
of the time of Nero in Pompeii. 
So true is it that what is the 
luxury of one age, becomes the 
necessity of another. The beds 
themselves in these narrow, dark, 
gloomy, confined, uncomfortable 
bedrooms were luxurious enough, 
being of down, and the softer fea- 
thers of the pea-fowl, whilst the 
bed coverings consisted of the skins 
of goats or sheep, and of woollen 
blankets. Rich and poor appear 
alike to have gone to bed naked, 
just as the inhabitants of Europe 
generally did, even as late as the 
seventeenth century. 

The rooms generally were with- 
out chimneys. Glass was known, 
but was little and rarely used. 
The windows were most commonly 
closed with blinds of linen, plates 
of horn, or wooden shutters. They 
evidently paid much more atten- 
tion to their floors than we ordi- 
narily do nowadays in England. 
Looking-glasses were not unknown, 
but mirrors of metal were by far 
more common Lamps were of 
universal use. They were usually 
of bronze, and sometimes of earth- 
enware. Some of them were in 
the shape of a small boat or butter- 
dish. Various animals were repre- 

sented upon the bronze lamps by 
way of ornament, such as bats, 
mice, and rabbits. 

And now of the streets which 
lay without these houses, what of 
them ? They were narrow, paved 
with uneven blocks of stone, much 
indented by the ruts caused by the 
wheels of carts, and with stepping- 
stones across them, so that the 
Pompeians might cross from side 
to side without dirtying their san- 
dled feet in the mire. There they 
stand at the present day, long lines 
of them, silent, deserted, awful! 
The people have just left them, ap- 
parently, with the carts, the small 
horses, the oxen, the sheep, and 
the poultry — the usual din and 
clatter of everyday life. It may all 
rise ghost-like to surprise us at any 
moment ! We can see that the 
Forum was being repaved when 
the destroying shower came down. 
We can see that here and there the 
streets were being repaired where 
the ruts were deepest. All the tor- 
rent of human life was sweeping on, 
and was arrested by a force greater 
than that of man ! 

Among the curiosities found was 
a large earthen vase, with a wire 
lattice at the top, and small shelves 
round the sides. This was a cage 
for fattening dormice for the table. 
They were esteemed great luxuries. 
No banquet was complete without 
them then. But that terrible shower 
of ashes and pumice-stones put an 
end to all Pompeian banquets — to 
their fattened dormice, their luxuri- 
ous revelries, their oysters from Bri- 
tain, and their kids carved to the 
sound of music, their fruits served up 
in ice in the midst of summer, and 
their wines of the most delicate 
vintages from Spain and from Ar- 
menia. No longer were the pillars 
in the peristyle encircled with gar- 
lands of flowers; the tables of 
citron- wood inlaid with arabesque 
mosaics; the couches of bronze, 
gilt and jewelled, furnished with 




thick cushions and tapestry, and 
embroidered with marvellous skill ; 
the silver basins for the visitors' 
hands; the napkins fringed with 
purple were no longer prepared for 
the luxurious guests, keen and criti- 
cal and witty. No longer was the 
altar of Bacchus decked out for 
the libation, nor did the cup-bearers 
bring round the golden cups with 
delicious wine. No longer did the 
dancers execute theirgraceful move- 
ments, nor the singers, accompanied 
by the lyre, warble forth an ode of 
Anacreon, Sappho, or Horace. All 
was silent ; all mute. The ruth- 
less shower of ashes and scorie and 
pumice-stones put an end to all, 
covering up the very scenes of these 
revelries for seventeen centuries. 

They died, many of them, these 
haH'VivanU and their slaves, just as 
that ruthless shower found them — 
guests in the banquetiug halls, 
brides in their chambers, soldiers 
at their posts, prisoners in the dun- 
geons, thieves in the act of thieving, 
maidens at their miirors, slaves at 
the fountains, students at their 
books, and traders in their shops ! 
In one cellar a man and a dog shut 
themselves up from the destroying 
shower. The man hoped, doubt- 
less, that it would be over anon, 
and he and his dog would sally 
forth to see clear skies, and the 
Mediterranean, and Vesuvius, and 
beautiful nature, as of old. But for 
him there was no cessation to that 
shower. He died suffocated in the 
cellar in which he had hidden him- 
self. He died first. The dog sur- 
vived him and fed upon his corpse, 
and then the dog, too, died of hun- 
ger, a lingering, hopeless death. 
The bones of the man were found 
scattered about in the cellar, where 
the dog had left them, after gnaw- 
ing at them ; but the bones of the 
dog were found in a heap in a 
comer where he had retired to die, 
when there was nothing left upon 
the bones that he had gnawed. 

A strange lesson Irnly for us in 
this nineteenth century is here, 
when we are all engrossed with 
thoughts of pleasure, of business, of 
money-making, and of intriguing, 
as if there were nothing nobler or 
hotter in life than this petty round 
of daily wiles and cares. There 
was an earthquake in Vienna the 
other day. Loudon or Paris might 
be swallowed up in a day, as half 
of Lisbon was a century ago, as 
all Pompeii was eighteen centuries 
ago. We dig them out, and there 
they are — the houses standing, tho 
paintings fresh, the skeletons often 
in the very positions, in the very 
places, in which death overtook 
their owners so long before. Tho 
marks left by the cups of the revel- 
lers still remain upon the counters ; 
the prisoners* bones still wear tho 
felon's chains; the belles their or- 
naments and their trappings of 
pride or vanity ; the miser died 
gloating over his treasures, and the 
priest as he came from lurking in 
secret recesses in tho hollow statue 
of the god, whence he uttered the 
lying oracles and deceived the faiths 
ful. There are the altars, crusted 
over with the victims' blood, shed 
so uselessly ; the stables in which 
the victims themselves were kept ; 
and the hall of mysteries with their 
symbolical paintings. They are all 
there — all unearthed after eighteen 
centuries of burial. And are there 
no lessons for us, in this year of 
grace, to be deduced from all this ? 
I think there are — lessons deep and 
significant, full of instruction, if we 
only look at them aright, lessons of 
awful moment too, written in. 
bones, in marble, and in stone. 

At the end of each street was: 
usually a fountain, and here, as 
the citizens sat at eventide, they 
might survey the Mediterranean 
beautiful as now, blue and sunny 
and serene. Crowds would pass 
and repass, some sauntering up 
and down in purple dresses, their 




gala salts ; slaves < might bo seen 
bearing on their heads vases of 
flowers ; some, too, of the richer in- 
habitants, sitting on marble benches, 
shaded from the sun by awnings, 
having before them tables laden 
with wine, with fruits, with flowei'S. 
And what was the nsual dress 
of this motley crowd ? The to^a^ 
a loose flowing robe, which covered 
the whole body, was originally worn 
by both sexes, but was in the later 
days of the Empire reserved for 
men alone. It was round, and 
close at the bottom, open at the 
top to the girdle, and without 
sleeves, so that the arms might be 
at liberty. Under the Empire, the 
women wore a different robe, a 
stolaf with a broad border or fringe, 
reaching to the feet, and, when 
thoy went out of doors, a mantle 
or cloak thrown over it. At first 
the stola was woollen, but silk was 
introduced from the East, and in 
the later days of Pompeii silk was 
not uncommon. Golden tassels 
and strips of beaten gold, sewn 
into the borders as ornaments, 
were the luxuries of the wealthy. 
Trousers and stockings were equal- 
ly unknown, but strips of cloth 
were often worn wrapped round 
the legs, whilst the shoes and san- 
dals were red, scarlet, purple, or 

The fashion of doing the hair, 
lately prevalent amongst the ladies 
in England, seems to have been 
copied from the Pompeians — false 
hair was largely mixed with the 
natural, and the whole was done 
up, often into the form of a hel- 
met. Paint and gold powder were 
freely used to give a lustre to the 
hair, and to make it bright and 
yellow. Wigs, too, were not un- 

The ladies used small tooth- 
brushes and tooth-picks, some of 
the latter of silver, some of wood. 
They seem to have resorted to in- 
genious devices to increase the lus- 

tre of their eyes. Harmless ser- 
pents, which they kept plajrfnlly 
in their bosoms, parrots, monkeys, 
and lap-dogs, were amongst their 
favourite pets. 

Their dressing tables were sup- 
plied with all sorts of appliances, 
except the pin. Combs of ivory 
or bone, curling tongs, jewellery of 
all kinds, earrings, necklaces, brace- 
lets, finger-rings, all were common, 
and, besides these, essences, per- 
fumes, washes, and dyes. 

People employed in special occu- 
pations lived in particular streets, 
or in particular quarters of the 
town, as is still common in the 
bazaars of the East, and was com- 
mon in our western towns, up to 
the sixteenth century. One street, 
for instance, was called the street 
of dried fruits, from the quantity 
of raisins, figs, plums, olives, and 
pickles found there. The signs 
were various — a marble goat for 
one who sold milk ; a head of 
^sculapins for an apothecary's 
shop ; two men carrying an am- 
phora for a wine-shop; and a pig 
has also been found as a sign for a 
wine-shop recently — (was the pig 
sacred to Bacchus ? ) — scales, 
moulds of bronze for pastry, some- 
times of elegant designs, and 
money, have also been found. On 
the counter of an apothecary was 
a box of pills, together with jars 
of various descriptions of medicine. 
Those for whom the pills were pre- 
pared probably never felt the want 
of them. Vessels full of almonds, 
chestnuts, walnuts, and the fruit of 
the carob tree have been found in 
a fruiterer's shop. 

Kings for tying up horses may 
be still seen fastened in the wall 
at each side of the door of an inn, 
with checkers also, one of the 
oldest of signs apparently. The 
stables for the horses of guests 
were extensive in one of these inns, 
with apartments above for the 
visitors, and large earthen vessels 




for wine in the cellars, with foun- 
tains for water in the yard. 

The frescoes on the walls repre- 
sented scenes in the Q-reek legends, 
sncb as '' The Parting of Achilles 
and Briseis," " Hector and Andro- 
mache," **The Seizure of Europa," 
" The Battle of the Amazons.'* 
Bat besides these classical sabjects 
others have been found more re- 
cently, representing the chase, hunt- 
ing, fullers engaged in cleaning 
clothes, banquets, and other scenes 
more objectionable. In the case of 
the fullers, three men and a boy are 
standing in the tubs, treading upon 
the clothes. Soap and brushes ap- 
pear to have been extensively in 

Parchment, leather, and rolls of 
papyrus, were used for writing, 
and reeds for pens. Their ink was 
made from lamp-black. Their 
libraries consisted of rows of cup- 
boards or presses, with rolls of 
parchment or papyrus within. But 
little has yet been discovered in the 
way of literature in Pompeii, but 
who can tell what treasures may 
not yet be unearthed ? What 
should we not give for a few letters, 
written by an intelligent Roman 
officer, in Palestine, for instance, 
some forty or fifty years before the 
buriaT of the city? and who can 
say that some such may not yet be 

Among the most recent excava- 
tions was that of a banker's house, 
with a strong box containing a 
multitude of coins, and statements 
of accounts of those whohad lodged 
their money with him,8ome of them 
charred and undecipherable, others 
quite legible. A few days before, 
we loss of those sums would have 
been regarded as ruin by his 
clients, and, after the burial of the 
city, who felt the want of them ? 
probably not one in a hundred. 

Near the villa of Cicero, outside 
the walls to the north-east, stretches 
a whole line of tombs — those of 

Umbricius Scaurus, of Cains Cal- 
venzius Quietus, and of Lucius 
Libellus, being amongst the most 
remarkable. In one instance, at 
least, the family burial-place ap- 
pears to have been in close prox- 
imity to the family villa. The 
Diomeds were the occupiers of 
both — the dead Diomeds occupying 
the tomb and the living Diomeds 
the villa. In a subterranean pas- 
sage under this villa, the skele- 
tons of eighteen persons were 
found huddled together. The gal- 
ley in which a noble youth was 
drowned, may be found sculptured 
in marble, fresh and vivid, on the 
side of one of these tombs, just as 
it might be in Brompton or Ken- 
sal Green ; whilst on another, a 
baker's sepulchre, the irreverent 
stone-cutter jestingly inscribes, he 
baked meats for others when he 
was alive, and now death makes 
baked meat of him ! A ghastly 
joke. It was the custom amongst 
the Romans to bury their dead as 
near as possible to the great roads. 
The dead there might not be alto- 
gether shut out, they thought, from 
society and companionship. 

A visit to the Museo Borbonico 
in Naples is necessary after a visit 
to Pompeii. The chief objects of 
antiquity that have been turned up 
in disinterring the buried city are 
there collected and arranged — statu- 
ary, the Dancing Faun, the sleep- 
ing Mercury, Laocoon, and others ; 
pictures on panels, encaustic, and 
frescoes, a parrot in harness, draw- 
ing a chariot, driven by a grass- 
hopper, caricatures of emperors and 
philosophers, mural decorations, 
and a row of thirteen miniatures, 
" the Dancing Girls of Pompeii " 
are well worth inspection ; the col- 
lection of jewellery and ornaments ; 
of domestic utensils and objects of 
daily life and daily usefulness ; all 
are interesting, aU iUustrative of 
Pompeian life, all full of instruc- 




The visitor xnaj search in vain 
for volnminons docuiDeiits relative 
to landed property, mortgages, re- 
leases to trustees, transfers of mort- 
gages, assignments of equitable in- 
terests, and other such legal light 
reading of this nineteenth century ; 
but he will find instead a thousand 
articles Ml of vital interest, con- 
veying lessons that the wisest of 
us may take home and ponder over 
—inkstands with dry ink, purses 
with coins never more to be used 
for making purchases, surgical in- 
struments that performed their last 
operations eighteen centuries ago, 
colours prepared for pictures never 
to be painted, corks for bottles that 
were never blown. And he reads 
in all these the vanity of human 
toil, sowing where it is never to 
reap ; the cunning of mankind in- 
tent upon a morrow which will 
never dawn ; the value of little 
things and the worthlessness of 
great ones. A kind word, in the 
last days of Pompeii, was worth 
more than the richest jewellery of 
the richest belle. 

I have said that, in many places,, 
it appears as if the citizens of 
Pompeii had only temporarily been 
interrupted in their work, and 
would probably return after a little 
to finish it. 

M. Simond gives a curious illus- 
tration of this fact. *' In the 
Forum, opposite to the Temple of 
Japiter, I noticed a new altar of 
white marble, exquisitely beautiful, 
and apparently just out of the 
hands of the sculptor. An inclo- 
sure was being made round it, the 
mortar just dashed against the side 
of the wall, was but half spread 
out. You could see thd long slid- 
ing stroke of the trowel about to 
return, and obliterate its own track. 
But it never did return. The hand 
of the workman was suddenly ar- 
rested by Yesuvkis, and, after a 
lapse of more than eighteen hun- 
dred years, the whole now looks so- 
fresh and new, that vou would al- 
most swear the mason had bub 
gone to dinner, and would pre- 
sently come back to smooth over 
the unsightly roughness."* 

" Les Bnines de Pompeii,'* p. 134. 


Wanderings in Elysium. 



A ScMMEB IN Cashmere. 

** If there be an Elysium on earth 
It is this, it is this ! " — LaUti Rookh, 

About the middle of April, 1870, 1 
found myself at Lahore, endeavour- 
ing to procure some method of con- 
veyance to Goojerat, whence it was 
my intention to strike the hills at 
Blumbur, on my way to the valley 
of Cashmere. There was some 
difficulty in getting farther than 
Lahore, owing to the fact that Lord 
Mayo and Lord Napier of Magdala, 
with some of their Staff followers, 
and many army officers proceeding 
on the hot-weather leave of absence, 
were travelling north - westward 

A dawk-gharrie, or carriage, hav- 
ing, however, been secured, I and 
a friend, starting from the same 
hotel, took our seats therein at 6 
a.m., and reached Goojerat in 
safety at 7 p.m., a distance of 
seventy miles. We had stopped 
a short while for lunch at Wuzeer- 
abad, half-way, and had crossed 
en route the Ravee and Chenab 
rivers. Getting over the latter 
was a most tedious operation, as 
we had to traverse on either bank a 
weary waste of sand, where plodding 
bullocks were substituted for the 
galled jades which had been flogged 
wit'i difficulty into doing six miles 
an hour. 

The Goojerat dawk-bungalow, or 
rest-house, is the best of its kind, 
perhaps, in India, being comfort- 
ably furnished and supplied with 

books and newspapers; and it 
then Khansamah, or manager, took 
some interest in the welfare of his 
guests. There, at least, one could 
have some change from the eternal 
lean chicken, roast or curriedi 
slaughtered, cooked, and eaten 
within the couple of hours* stay 
of the traveller at most Indian 
staging houses. There beef and 
mutton graced the board, and 
wines and soda water, &c., were 
forthcoming at call. 

Having hired a dogcart for twenty 
rupees (£2) to take us on to Bhim- 
bur, we started at 2 a.m , and man- 
aged to reach that place, a distance 
of only thirty miles, at 10 a.m. We 
could have walked it with greater 
ease and comfort in less time. The 
latter half of the road wasdisgrace- 
fully bad; perhaps the fitness of 
things would have been outraged 
had a decent road been carried to 
the confines of Cashmere territory, 
where there are no roads at all. 

At any rate, on this journey we 
had to do more laborious work 
than riding, and helped more to 
pifll our conveyance on than would 
the creature between the shafts, who 
jibbed and stuck at every rut and 
patch of sand on the way. It was 
comforting, therefore, as you may 
imagine, to get into Bhimbur, and 
to find there our trusty servants 
salaaming a welcome, and our tents 


Wanderings in Elysium. 


pitched, and some skius of water 
warming in the sunshine for our 
bath ; having indulged in which 
very necessary luxury we foimd 
breakfast ready, and did ample 
justice to that meal. I should have 
mentioned that we had sent on our 
servants with most of our belong- 
ings by " bullock train ** (the Go- 
vernmental Pickford) some days 
before we ourselves left for Lahore. 

Strolling about the place after 
breakfast, I came across a group of 
sturdy, dirty-looking fellows, who 
informed me they were Cashmeerees 
returning to Srinugger from Umrit- 
sur, and willing to be engaged as 
porters for the j oumey. Thereupon 
I agreed to hire them for carriage 
of my goods and chattels, and 
in the sequel had no reason to 
congratulate myself on the engage- 

Our bundles were made up and 
sorted over-night for their respective 
carriers, and at 4 a.m. of the 19th 
April we commenced our first walk 
into the hills. 

After five miles of tolerably 
good ground, and having to ford a 
stream — at this time narrow and 
shallow, but when I re-crossed it in 
September a respectable river — we 
reached the foot of the Adhee 
Bhuk, an extremely nasty hill to 
climb, being very steep and of a 
most slippery sandstone. Its sum- 
mit is crowned by a Fuqueer's hut, 
whose owner may be heard at times 
praying in a deep monotonous un- 
dertone. The descent of the Adhee 
Dhuk is also very steep and rough, 
and the traveller has to hop from 
boulder to boulder for some miles 
before he reaches the plain about 
Sydabad. Luckier may ho be, I 
trust, than myself, who went lame 
on that wretched mountain, having 
twisted a leg between two of its 
primeeval paving stones. This ac- 
cident lost me my hitherto com- 
panion, who pushed on by double 
stages — as I, having walked down 

my lameness, was able to do some 
days later. 

Left Sydabad next day at 4 a.m., 
having to climb the Eoomaneh 
Gosh, a stiffish hill. Resting at its 
summit, in the grey of the morn- 
ing, I was surprised to find my leg 
grasped suddenly, and, starting up, 
discovered the Fuqueer (holymendi- 
dicant) of the Koomaneh, who had 
commenced thus abruptly to sham- 
poo me. I was glad to submit to 
the operation, which was grateful 
enough, and for which the hermit 
of the hill was rewarded with a 
small coin, and after it I resumed 
my weary walk down another stony 
hill-side, and was rejoiced to reach 
Nowsheera at last, having done 
twelve nasty miles on a disabled 
leg. At Nowsheera are two tra- 
vellers* houses, built in an orchard, 
with foiur rooms to each, and each 
room having its own verandah, a 
style of domestic architecture pi*6- 
vailing in most of the caravanserais 
in these hills. 

From Nowsheera to Cbungus, 
the next stage (about fourteen 
miles), the road follows the valley 
of the river Tawi, in which excel- 
lent fishing may be had, though 
the mahseer (hill salmon) are not 
perhaps so fine as those to be 
caught at Poonch. The Chungus 
rest-house is beautifullv situated 
on a h|gh bank above the Tawi, 
and on my arrival at it I was grati- 
fied by a glorious view of the far 
snowy range of the Himalayas. 
Adjoining this rest-house are the 
remains of a grand seraij or halting 
place, of the Mogul emperors. 
Between Chungus and Eajaori 
(fifteen miles) at times you wind 
through green-hedged and sandy 
lanes, and nearing Eajaori, the 
Tawi has to be forded. The large 
stones of this river are the most 
slippery, and its small ones the 
sharpest, in the world — crede ex- 
perto — for I foolishly took my boots 
off in order to cross it, not having 


Wanderings in Ely»ium. 


yet arrived at the luxury of grass 
sandals, whose value J learned to 
appreciate before long. 

The Burradurree, as the staging- 
house is called, is charmingly situ- 
ated on the high bank, opposite 
the quaint old town of iCajaori, 
whose palaces are rapidly crumbling 
away ; while, between, the Tawi 
roars and rolls onward to the plains 
of India. An English traveller 
fishing the river up from Ghungus, 
brought in a basket of thirty mah- 
seer from eight pounds weight 
downwards. The mahseer is an 
excellent fish, and gives capital 
sport; it sometimes reaches, in 
good streams, a weight of over forty 
pounds. A heavy thunderstorm 
broke over us at night, but next 
day we pushed on to Thunna Mun- 
dee, a small village of fiat-roofed 
houses in a sort of bay amongst 
the hilb. The mountain tops close 
by were covered with snow, the 
result of the previous night's storm. 

My Cashmere coolies came in 
late, purposely it appeared, in order 
to be quarrelled with, and then 
objected to accompany me by the 
Poonch route, which they knew it 
had been my intention to take in 
order to reach the valley. For from 
Thunna Mundee you can proceed 
by either of two routes ; the shorter 
tikmg you over the Fir Funjal at 
a height of 11,400 feet; the other 
passing through Poonch and over 
the Haji Pir at an elevation of 
8,200 feet. As the late fall of 
snow promised to render the former 
route rather distressing, I had de- 
cided on the latter, and was enabled 
through the Thanadar (head man) 
of the village to procure other 
porters. This official, with seeming 
eagerness, requested to be allowed 
to flog my Cashmeerees all round 
severely for their breach of con- 
tract ; but I asked him to administer 
a simple imprisonment of two days 
instead; this he promised to do, 
expressing his regret for. my 

leniency. On inquiry, however, I 
found Uiat he was in league with 
these very men, and had engaged 
them for another traveller then at 
Thunna: Mundee, who was willing 
to attempt the Punjal route. I 
met this traveller later at Srinugger, 
and heard from him that he had 
suffered much hardship in crossing 
the Punjal pass, where the snow 
lay heavy and the cold was intense. 
As it was, by marching double 
stages on the longer route, I 
reached the capital a day or two 
before him. 

On the S4th I had a heavy grind 
up the spur of the Buttun Pir, and 
then a steep and stony descent 
beyond through a pine forest, and 
then a pleasant walk along the 
valley ofihe Soorun river. The next 
day, starting at 5 a.m., found the 
path of an easy character as far as 
Poonch, though some scrambling 
had to be done along the rocks by 
the bank of the stream, and a 
bridge had to be crossed, a la 
Blondin, composed of a large pine 
stem. Breakfasted at Poonch, a 
romantic-looking place, with a 
large castle, the residence of Bajah 
Motee Singh, and continued my 
walk to Kahoota, having to ford 
the Bitarrh river in a spot too deep 
and rapid for ease of mind in the 
crossing. Then missed my guide 
on a hill-side, and at once lost my 
way, and got imprisoned in some 
jujube thorn-bushes, from which 1. 
only escaped with many wounds to 
reach my journey's end at 7 p.m., 
some twenty-six miles. Next morn- 
ing it rained heavily as I started, 
the road being mostly in ascent and 
stony, for Aliabad, where the 
shelter-house was a mere cattle- 
shed ; during the night a succession 
ofthimderstonns raged with terrific 
fury. I could hardly sleep for the 
cold and the loud crashes of thun- 
der echoing through the hills, and 
the flashes of hghtning, almost 
blinding in their intensity. 


Wanderings in Elysium, 


During the evening I had been 
visited by the hermit of the moun- 
tain. He was a very feeble old 
creature, and somewhat drivelling 
in his talk. I gave him a small 
gratuity, at whidb he looked, and 
said it was not enough. I laughed 
and gave him more. He informed 
me that a sahib who passed a few 
days before had given him two 
rupees. I said that must have 
been a bun*a sahib (a great man), 
to which he assented: "but I," I 
pui^ued, *'am a chota sahib (a 
little man), an inferior character ;*' 
and in this he frankly expressed 
his concurrence also. He told me 
he had been driven down from the 
pass by the cold , nevertheless I 
found him next morning seated 
outside his hut at the top of the 
Haji Pir crooning out some prayers. 
"The poor old thing must have risen 
^arly, for I started a little after 
daybreak and pushed up the road 
at a rattling pace. I'he ascent of 
the Haji was not so toilsome as I 
bad expected, but the descent, after 
the night*s snow fall, was slippery 
and unpleasant. I met some troops 
of large baboons in the pine forest; 
the effect of the snow on and about 
these trees was very beautiful. 
Crossing a bridged stream, I 
breakfasted at a solitary and pic- 
turesque-looking spot called Hydra- 
bad, and then walked on till, 
some three miles further, I came 
upon the most exquisitely charming 
waterfall I have ever seen. 

Out of an opening some 30 feet 
*4)elow the summit of a precipitous 
'.hillside, shoots an aerial river, fall- 
ing full 60 feet into a thickly 
wooded glen, where it dashes its 
waters into those of two other 
mountain torrents, roaring and 
seething over their rocky meeting- 
place. The clamour of waters was 
deafening, and as I paused there 
long, to enjoy the full grandeur of 
the scene, I half expected that 
Undine herself would start from 

the boiling foam and woo me to 
her embraces in her own romantic 
dwelling-place ! However, I slept 
at Ooree that night, starting next 
morning at 6 o'clock for a walk of 
twenty-six miles, so as to reach 
the happy valley by evening. 

Part of the road, above the 
Jhelum river, was grand and pic- 
turesque, and below, the river 
rolled along in tumultuous fury. 
The day had been hot, and reach- 
ing the foot of the Baramulla pass, 
I stopped at a sparkling spring and 
drank long and lovingly of its 
grateful water, then struck boldly 
up to the top of the ridge, and 
looked my first look upon the Valley 
of Cashmere ! 

Towering up into the clear sky 
were the furthest snowy peaks! 
Nearer, others, such as Huramok, 
also covered with snow ; then the 
lower ranges of grey hills and the 
somewhat uneven surface of the 
valley itself, with its lakes and its 
river; and, close byand under me, 
the town of Baramulla, amid a 
grove of poplar trees. 

Having gratified my sense of the 
picturesque and beautiful by sur- 
veyin<i: the glorious expanse of hill 
and dale, and water, I continued 
my walk to the town of Baramulla, 
where I immediately hired a large 
boat (called in Cashmeeree a 
doongah) for my servants and 
luggage, and a sort of canoe 
(shikarah), by which I might my- 
self all the quicker reach the 
capital, and shortly started up 
stream. Lying at full length as 
evening fell, I looked upwards at 
the clear heaven and the lofty 
mountain peaks, and yielded to a 
delicious languor (somewhat super- 
induced by the long day*s trudge 
under a broiling sun), which soon 
became merged in a profound 
sleep. From this I was awakened 
by the boatmen, who infoimed me 
I had aiTived at Sopoor. where is a 
travellers' rest-house. Into this I 


Wanderings in Elysium. 


proceeded, and threw myself with 
a nig and pillow upon the earthen 
floor; but by no means could I 
induce the sweet restorer of tired 
nature to close my eyelids again ; 
for millions of fleas disputed pos- 
session of the room with me, and' 
to them I yielded the place after 
some restless hours, and betook 
myself again to the boat. 

Paddling on, we crossed the 
Wulloor lake, overgrown in most 
parts with the lotus and singhara 
plants (the latter gives ' a plea- 
santly edible nut in July and 
August), and into the river again, 
landing occasionally to stroll along 
the towing path ; on, by clumps of 
giant plane trees and groves of 
lofty poplars, under quaint wooden 
bridges and past quainter wooden 
bouses, from whose lattices peeped 
many black eyes to see one of the 
earliest anived sahibs of the season ; 
past the maharajah*s palace, whose 
walls and bastions frown over the 
stream and glare fiercely in the 
sunlight with their tawdry adorn- 
ments of yellow and red, on past 
mosque and minaret, past ghat and 
garden, till we arrive at a bank 
lined by a row of tall poplar trees, 
where are the lath-and-plastei 
houses, somewhat tumble-down it 
nust be admitted, but vet most 
generously and hospitably provided 
by the maiiarajah for the reception 
of European visitors, and where 
we accordingly disembark, to be 
immediately mobbed by a crowd 
-ef boatmen, shikarees, tailors, and 
louters of all sorts. These houses 
are intended each for two visitors, 
having three or four small rooms 
on both floors, and are at the 
service of any one arriving. No 
charge is made for their occupancy, 
nor is any fee exacted from travel- 
lers in Cashmere for the use of any 
of the rest-houses built, at the 
maharajah's expense, on the lines 
«f route. 

On arrival at Srinugger each 

visitor is presented with a nuzzer, 
or offering, from the maharajah. 
This generally consists of a sheep 
or goat (I could not decide which 
animal mine represented), some 
sugar, spices, and fruit, and is 
meant as a token of welcome to 
his highnesses territory. 

As my stay at the capital, on 
this occasion, was to be a very 
short one, I went next day to make 
such purchases as I required ; 
travelling from shop to shop by 
boat, the usual mode of locomotion 
in this inland Venice ; for, besides 
the river Jhelum. which is the 
main street, are two canals inter- 
secting the city on either bank, 
and tlie city (or Dhull lake), by 
which one travels to the various 
points of interest about. I ex- 
changed some of my Indian rupees 
into Cashmere ones (called chil- 
kies), very unnecessarily, as I soon 
discovered, for the British Indian 
rupee is current everywhere in tlie 
valley, and the chilkie is slightly 
depreciated, not always passing at 
its nominal value of ten annas. 
The chilkie is merely a hammered 
lump of silver with a Persian 
inscription of date, &c., but curious 
to say with tlie Roman capitals 
I. H. S. thrown in, apropos de rwn, 
at least I have heard no explanation 
of this use of them given. I rigged 
myself out in a shooting suit of 
the country cloth (puttoo) for ten 
shillings, very serviceable stuff, 
got mocassins and sandals, and 
finally procured a " purwanah " or 
passport, from the maharajah's 
agent — one Mohesh Chund, fami- 
liarly known as ** the baboo ! '* 

On the 2nd May, staited in my 
doongah down stream, again to 
cross the Wulloor lake. My boat's 
crew was a peculiar one ; consisting 
of an old man, two old women, one 
young woman, and three children 
of from ten to four years old ; these, 
even the youngest, used to take 
their turn at Uie towing rope, to 


Wanderings in Elysium. 


'which they were allowed with all 
gravity to joke ibemselves, trudging 
sturdily and with serious purpose 
along. At night, while in mid 
stream, we were overtaken by a 
violent thunderstorm, and with our 
feeble and motley equipage had 
some difficulty in making the bank, 
where we remained moored till 
morning. I first remarked on this 
night what peculiarly sweet voices 
the Cashmere women have; and 
often after in the valley I have 
heard angelic tones issuing from 
the mouths of demons of ugliness. 
We reached our port (Bandipore) 
safely next day, and I pitched my 
tent under a plane tree near the 
village. These trees are the finest 
growths in the valley. The present 
one I measured roughly, and found 
it to be, breast high, twenty-four feet 
in girth. The afternoon was passed 
in purchasing supplies of rice, &c. 
&e. Of rice I took five maunds 
(400 pounds) for the provisioning 
of my servants and porters. My 
servants were two in number; a 
khidmutgar (cook, butler, and 
general attendant), and a bheestie 
(water-carrier), who being a reli- 
gious congener (fellow Mussulman) 
of the khidmutgar, helped him in 
his work ; there were two shikarees 
(huntsmen) also, and my coolies 
(porters) numbered seventeen — five 
of them being told off to the h\e 
maunds of rice. 

On the 4th of May we left our 
encampment at 6 a.m. Had I 
known how steep a hill I was to 
find in the Tragbul our walk would 
have commenced a couple of hours 
earlier. I reached its foot at 
7 a. m. And began the ascent under 
a hot and blisteriug sun. Not 
Falstafif himself ever larded the 
lean earth so copiously as did I on 
this wearying day. But Tragbul 
was reached at last, though my 
coolies only arrived by driblets 
during the evening. I found it to 
be a mere clearing in the pine 

forest of about a hundred yards by 
fifty, with a pool of half-melted 
snow-water in its centre. Dinner 
and cigar finished, I was not long 
in seeking my camp-bed, as we bad 
a trying walk over the Rajdiang^n 
snow-clad ridge in prospect for the 
next march, when I was up at 8 a.m., 
but could only get my people off 
about four o'clock, so tired were they 
after the exertions of the previous 
day. We had a couple of miles of 
stiff climbing before reaching the 
top of Bajdiangan, 11,800 feet 
above the sea level, finding it 
thickly coated with snow. 

Baron Hugel ascended this 
mountain on the 6th of December, 
1835. Let me quote his descrip- 
tion of it: "I shall never forget 
(he writes) the cold I felt at the 
summit of that mountain. The 
north wind cut my face as with a 
knife, and my very bones seemed 
turned to ice. My thermometer, 
notwithstanding, was not lower 
than 31°; all around me was utter 
desolation, not a living creature, 
not a tree nor sign of vegetation as 
far as the eye could reach. Nought 
else, in fact, but rocks and ice and 
masses of snowclouds.'' 

We had a walk through this snow- 
field of about three miles, when 
descending by a steep frozen and 
difficult gudly, we got into a narrow 
and snow-blocked valley. The 
avalanches from the hill sides on 
either hand, having fallen earlier in 
the year, had become pressed and 
hardened, and so formed for miles 
one of the snow bridges so common 
in these mountains ; for beneath 
where we walked, and walked in 
perfect safety, rolled a rapid torrent, 
one of the tributaries of the river 
Kishengunga. So joumeying,we ar- 
rived at Jotkusu, a mere blockhouse 
for post runners, and perhaps the 
dreariest spot for man's residence 
to be anywhere found ; after break- 
fasting there, we pushed on, still 
over a snow-bridge^ about a mile 


Wanderings in Elysium. 


farther, where we encamped in « 
small clearing in the pine forest. 
It rained heavily all the evening, 
and through the night, and continued 
to poor in the morning when we 
resumed our travels; the walking 
was heavy too, owing to the slippery 
state of the paths. Still through a 
snow covered valley, girdled by pine 
forests, we went, till we gained 
another tumbledown block-house, 
named, Kunzlewan. The river 
Kishengunga is here a fine stream, 
and happened to be bridged — for 
the bridges over these mountain 
torrents are swept away every 
winter, to be built up again every 
spring. In the wildest part one 
has to cross on a slack rope, holding 
on at the widest stretch of one's 
arms to stay ropes at either side ; 
or otherwise, one gets into a basket 
suspended by a noose from a rope, 
and with heart in mouth at every 
poll, is jerked across the torrent at 
a fearful height above it. This 
bridge of Kunzlewan was, however, 
a work of art in its way, and easily 
traversed. At about a mile beyond 
it, we halted at a house called Nyall. 
After wading through much liquid 
manure about this homestead, I 
clambered on to the roof and sat 
there for some hours in heavy rain, 
at last I got my small tent up there, 
and pitched it somehow. 1 found 
afterwards in the Punjal hills, that 
tent-pitching on the roofs of houses 
is quite in the ordinary rules of 
Cashmere travelling. 

A wretched night it was at Nyall 
through fleas and moisture. Nor 
yet had it given over raining on the 
next day, when we started onwards 
for Guraifl ; which was held forth to 
me by my followers as quite a land 
of promise ; if not flowing with 
milk and honey, at least where 
certain comforts were to be had; 
and where I should meet with an 
English sahib, one of two already 
before me on this road. And it 
cleared up also as we passed on 

where the Kishengunga rollednoisily 
and rapidly along through many 
bold and striking gorges. On the 
opposite bank I saw a flock of six 
or seven ibex, but out of shot : in- 
deed, on various occasions thereafter 
did my shikaree point out to me 
on far-off peaks, where I could see 
them through a field glass, certain 
flocks of goats, which he assured 
me were ibex. On these occasions 
I always received his assertion with 
such perfect confidence in its truth- 
fulness, that I never sought to 
pursue the inquiry further. Not, 
therefore, will 1 try to detract from 
the merits of those sportsmen who, 
more sound in wind, and younger 
in years than myself, follow this 
wily climber through his difficult 
and dangerous fastnesses; for as 
the danger is, so must be the ex- 
citement ; and judged by this test, 
even tiger shooting on foot in the 
jungle does not require steadier 
nerve in the hunter, nor can it yield 
him a keener enjoyment. 

About three miles from Gurais 
I had a lucky escape : for, slipping, 
I fell on the narrow path above the 
river, but fortunately recovered my 
footing by a quick instinct. As 
I got to my legs again, my 
shikaree, who had made no attempt 
to save me, remarked that it was a 
nasty place to tumble ; and looking, 
I saw how closely I had shaved apre- 
cipitous fall of full forty feet into the 
rocky torrent, above which we were 
travelling. I was new just then to 
the grass sandals (called pool) worn 
mostly in Cashmere, but managed 
to keep my feet better thereafter. 
These sandals are made in a few 
minutes by the shikarees or coolies, 
and can be worn for two or three 
days, with an occasional tightening 
of the bands. When going over 
very rough ground, however, you 
may wear out a couple of pairs in 
a day, and it is always advisable to 
have a spare set at hand. The 
country is literally strewed with 


Wanderings in Elysium. 


cast-off pools, 80 that a stranger 
might almost make his way about 
by following them in any frequented 

Not far from Gurais, the path 
follows the interstices of the rocks 
on the steep banks of the stream, 
and one has to pick his way care- 
fully from one foothold to another. 

Gurais is a collection of four or 
five villages, in a small valley, sur- 
rounded by lofiy hills on all sides, 
save where the river finds its way 
through ; it was here bridged in 
two places, and I had the pleasure 
of seeing the tent of the •* sahib," 
of whom I had heard on the road. 
He was at breakfast, and invited 
me to join him. There was ibex 
steak I recollect, which tasted well 
to me, somewhat like beef, though 
it is not thought wholesome by the 
Cashmere people, who also depre- 
cate the flesh of the musk deer, 
calling both *' Gurm," in English, 
**hot," but meaning difficult of 
digestion. There is a mud fort at 
Gurais near the upper bridge, and 
near it my tent was pitched, and as 
the sun shone out brightly, my 
modest kit was soon laid out for an 
airing. Thereafter all, save two, of 
my coolies, were dismissed to their 
homes ; these two being retained 
to act mostly as Post ininuers 
between my camp and Srinugger, 
to fetch letters and newspapers, and 
loaves of bread, and such things as 
the capital could supply for our 
wants. The loaves of bread used 
to arrive somewhat stale — but then 
we took out a little of the crumb, 
and poured into the cavity a small 
quantity of fresh milk, stopped the 
orifice, and set it for a short time to 
bake in the oven, and the loaf 
came out fresh and sweet as at 

On the 8th the sun shone out 
gloriously above the conical hill to 
eastward of Gurais valley, said to 
be full of ibex, but only climbable 
by them, and our party started on- 

wards. There was some difficulty 
about coolies, in lieu of two having 
to put up with a lame pony. About 
a mile further the river was bridged 
again, this bridge leading to the 
Tilail valley, a good sporting 
ground, and about a mile further 
on, we came to another bridge, 
which according to my shikaree led 
nowhere. This I thought curious : 
the fact being that we should have 
crossed this latter bridge to the left 
bank of the stream, which we would 
have been able to recross by a 
bridge higher up. My guide, 
philosopher and friend —my shikaree 
— in whom I was obliged to place 
all my confidence, chose on this 
occasion, to make me travel by 
a road, which even the Cashmeerees 
had deserted for two years as un- 
safe to pass over, whilst there was a 
fairly good path on the opposite 
bank. My first reason for sup- 
posing something to be wrong, was 
that we an-ived, with some trouble, 
where the road ceased altogether, 
having dropped in a landslip into 
the river at a not very recent date. 
However, there was the rock, al- 
most perpendicular, with a few 
jagged projections here and there, 
but slimy from a mossy over- 
growth ; beyond— five or six yards 
only — was the path again full in 

Shikaree turns to me and says. 
" the road is not good here." I 
agree with him, and venture to say 
he has made a mistake — he takes 
an oath he knows the country as 
well as his father's house — and 
thinks we had better try to get 
across this small gap. ** Will you 
follow me, sahib, if I precede you ? ** 
It was evident to me he did not wish 
to go, perhaps on my account, for 
these men can hold on like flies to 
placesquite impossible to Europeans 
or plainsmen. I answered, *' No," 
with emphasis. — " I would rather 
take the hill,*' — this we did, and 
after some severe walking, found 


Wanderings in Elysium. 


ourselves once more on the path 
above the stream : there is another 
difficulty — the road appears again 
to have subsided into the river — 
** Oh, no," he cries, •* it is quite 
easy," I have only to follow him ; 
and he gives me no time for 
reflection, but pushes on, clamber- 
ing to the rock, and below is a fall 
of at least 30 feet to the river. 
*' There is no place to put my foot," 
I cry, with one leg dangling over 
the precipice, and holding on with 
both hands, and the toes of my other 
foot Shikaree sees my distress, 
and inserts his alpenstock into a 
crevice— if I hesitate I am lost — 
I trust my thirteen stone upon it, 
and get a foothold beyond. I then 
find myself on a path six inches 
wide, all that is left of the ancient 
causeway, which looks, aud is, slip- 
pery from water filtering through 
the hill-side ; there are only a few 
paces to take, but they seem never 
ending; and at last I am leaning 
against a rock, which is between 
me and the river, with secure foot- 
hold behind— and there below me 
is the bridge, over which I see my 
coolies passing safely with their 
burdens. *• They have made another 
road since I was here last," says the 
shikaree, '* And not before it was 
wanted,'* say I, and so ends that 
incident. We* were now close to 
Doodgay, a thriving village of two 
huts and a curious watermill, the 
latter for the benefit of all travellers, 
many of whom carry their food in 
the grain, and who by a simple 
arrangement of a small trap-door, 
can apply or divert the water power. 
My tent came up rather late, the 
lame pony having been exchanged 
at a farm-house for a livelier one, 
who had immediately cast his 
load and bolted. Our camp was 
pitched on the shoulder of a hill 
above the stream, and I remained 
some days shooting about the cross 
valley Uiere. On the 13th we 
moved on eight miles, encamping 

on a small Murg or down named 
Pooshwarie, which was under culti- 
vation, and on the 14th shifted 
further to another down of larger 
dimensions, but uninhabited, called 
Minnie Murg; on this walk we had 
to cross some steep slopes of snow, 
where we were obliged to trust a 
good deal to our alpenstocks. At 
Minnie Murg, I encamped on a 
small patch where the snow had 
melted, and close to the junction 
of a narrow but very noisy streamlet 
with the Kishengunga. On the 15th 
went out early, and coming up with 
a fine she-bear, shot her through 
the breast, when she went rolling 
down the hill- side into a snow- 
drift far below. Again, in the 
afternoon, I wounded a large he- 
bear, breaking one of his fore legs, 
when he took to the level* ground 
near the river, where I followed 
him, giving him another shot, 
whereon he charged, but was turned 
by another shot, he then made for 
the river and plunged in. On 
reaching the bank, I saw him 
holding on by one fore foot to the 
rocks on the other side ; and waited 
till he had clambered up, as had I 
dropped him into the roaring tor- 
rent we could not have recovered 
him, when I finished him with a 
bullet in his skull. How to get his 
skin was now a question ? 

Some hundred yards below where 
he lay were the remains of a snow 
bridge; but this, while piled up 
towards either shore, had given 
altogether in the centre, leaving a 
chasm over the stream of some 
nine feet, and one or two fissures 
in the snow buttresses showed that 
the rest of this winter structure 
would soon follow. My second 
shikaree and a coolie, who appeared 
from the camp close by, collected a 
few small fir trees, and placed three 
of them across the broken arch ; 
then one pressed against them while 
the other, holding on by one of these 
sticks on either side, walked across on 


Wanderings in Elysium. 

the third. I was not near enough to 
prevent this most risky adventure, 
or I should not have allowed them 
to trust to so frail a mode of pas- 
sage. However, the first having 
crossed, helped the other over to 
him in a similar manner. 

They did not take long to deprive 
Bruin of his coat, and then returned 
to their bridge. I had many mis- 
givings ; but yet the first crossed 
safely, and then the second ; but at 
the very moment that the latter 
reached us, both buttresses of snow 
gave, and were carried away in tlie 
rushing river. Had these men 
gone in with the snow, it was out 
of our power to have saved them ; 
for, besides that perhaps no swim- 
mer could have stemmed such a 
torrent (and these fellows, I found 
on inquiry, could not swim), they 
were so encumbered with their 
thick clothing they could not have 
even made an effort at recovering 
the bank. See how curious a 
virtue is courage ! or how much a 
matter of custom! According to 
our notions, the Cashmeerees are 
pusillanimous in the extreme, and 
yet they will face positions of peril 
without hesitation, from which the 
boldest European would recoil. 

I remained at Minnie Murg till 
the 19th, shooting a few more bears 
— the largest I got measured seven 
and a half feet from scut to snout ; 
these were the snow or red bears ; 
if you get the wind of them they 
are easily stalked and secured. 
Four marches further on is Skardo ; 
but the route further was said in 
Montgomerie*s map to be only 
practicable from 15th July to 15th 
September; where we were en- 
camped was about 11,000 feet above 
sea level; but the Boorji Pass, 
three marches further, is at an 
altitude of 15,700 feet. All things 
considered, as I was by no means 
exploring, or seeking to trespass on 
Mr. Hayward's ground, I bought 
it best to retrace my steps to the 

valley. Mr. Hayward, some m 
afterwards so treacherously 
dered at Gilghit, was well k 
by the natives along the roc 
had traversed. Minnie Mu 
not mentioned on any map, 
is as well deserving of raenti 
many murgs so honoured, 
one of the largest downs am 
these mountains, and shows 
of having been cultivated. "^ 
I visited it the bears had its pi 
grounds of wild rhubarb to 
selves. At its eastern extr 
two streams join into the Ki 
gunga, one from the north 
other from the north-east; ^ 
at its western end is a n 
valley, where the sun's rays fi 
much difficulty in penetrating 
even towards the end of Ms 
stream flowing in it was bridg 
hardened snow throughout, 
day wandering along it I 
upon two three-year-old bea 
play in a snowdrift ; now and 
they would knock each othei 
in the snow, and paw and 
shoulders in sport or dalli 
again roll some yards down 1 
together in embrace, or slidi: 
a sitting posture; at times 
actually looked as if laughing 
snorted joyously. After wat 
them for some time I fired a 
close to them, w^en they go 
more astonished tlian alarmed 
moved slowly away, turning to 
at me occasionally, in evident • 
and surprise. 

On the 20th I reached Nilliki 
and surely no such small spot 
ever blessed with so long a i 
It was a mere clearing on the 
of the river of some thirty 
square. From our camp we 
few bears on the opposite hi! 
and towards evening a flock c 
or twelve fine ibex. The ^ 
here was narrow, between loft 
precipitous mountains, and 
after darkness had fallen on 
halting-place, the heights abo? 


IVandcringa in Ehjsiuw. 


peaks beyond were lit by the lin- 
gering sun. 

On the next day we made Gurais 
(twenty miles), passing our former 
encampment of Doodgay, near 
which I shot a fine musk-deer, 
whose head and pod my shikaree 
preserved for me. I took care to 
avoid the break-neck path by which 
that gentleman had led me on my 
journey up, and crossing the 
bridges, found an easy road on the 
other bank. Since we had passed, 
however, the bridge leading to the 
Tilcul had been washed away, and 
on reaching Gurais we found that, 
from the rapid melting of the snow, 
the waters had spread themselves 
over that valley. There was some 
difficulty in finding a dry spot for 
the tents. Here I had the pleasure 
of meeting my original travelling 
companion, who had been shooting, 
with some success, but under great 
difficulties, in the Punjal mountain 
range. Amongst those hills, if 
one may believe the shikarees, 
dwells an aged markhor, with horns 
quite seventy inches long, whom 
sportsmen, on the faith of the 
shikarees, have been pursuing for 
many years. European eye hath 
not yet beheld him, but neverthe- 
less his existence is not the less 
credited from season to season. My 
friend was not more fortunate than 
others in regard to him, and so 
thought it well to change his hunt- 
ing ground to the Tilaii in search 
of ibex instead. 

A few days later, on my road to 
Eunzlewan, I had a long and tire- 
some stalk after a herd of barasing 
(antlered deer), wanting one for the 
pot, but failed to get within shot 
of them. Along the valley where 
I had journeyed up on a snow- 
bridge, all sign of winter had melted 
away, and we trod luxuriously on a 
thick growth of clover. We met 
this day some hundreds or so of 
the Maharajah's sepoys escorting 
treasure to Gilghit They did not 

seem to like their occupation, as 
service on that frontier is not much 
affected by them ; but uherever 
they go they live at free quarters 
on their countrymen, who fly at 
their approach with a terror and 
rapidity which, could they inspire 
their enemies with the like, would 
make them easy conquerors every- 

Heavy thunderstorms joined their 
wild uproar to the clangour of the 
torrent all night above and below 
me, as I lay half frozen and all 
damp in the miserable blockhouse 
of Jotkusu. We were only able to 
start at noon next day — not along 
the gorge by which we had travelled 
up; for that was unsafe from the 
rush of waters — but up a steep and 
slippery hill by which, after much 
severe walking, we gained the Raj- 
diangan ridge, where the snow still 
lay thick, having, indeed, received a 
fresh coating during the night. 
Here we passed a dead pony, aud, 
on the snow about where it lay, 
were visible tlie paw marks of a 
large leopard. It rained and snowed 
upon us part of the way, but we 
reached Tragbul easily in the after- 
noon. And next day found us 
comfortably encamped in the grate- 
ful shade of the glorious chenar 
(plane) tree of Bandipore. 

On the 27th we started in a large 
hoat for Srinugger, mooring for the 
night at Shadipore (the city of 
marriage), so called from the Scinde 
river at that spot being wedded to 
(flowing into) the Jhelum; and 
considered so sacred a place that 
there, in presence of a large con- 
course of people, "the faithful 
dewan of the great kingLalitaditya" 
drowned himself one fine day, long 
ago. This interesting circumstance 
is mentioned in Doctor luce's 
*' Guide to Kashmir," and the doctor 
also remarks that close by stands a 
solitary chenar tree which, tradition 
says, never grows, and which he, 
with an evident belief in the said 


Wandeniigs in Elysium* 


tradition, carefully measured '* on 
the 15th of August, 1865, when it 
was about 1 1 feet in circnmference. '* 
And here let me add, that travellers 
in Cashmere are much beholden to 
Dr. Ince for his very useful little 
book, with which all intending visitors 
to Elysium should be provided. Night 
had fallen by the time we pulled up 
at Shadipore, but I can well recol- 
lect the calm pleasure I experienced 
on approaching it, as I lay reclined 
in the prow of the boat, while dark- 
ness dropped upon the valley, and 
1 watched the black trees reflected 
blackly in the stream, and only 
heard the light ripple of the water 
as we moved along. 

Passing through Srinugger next 
day, we saw the still smoking ruins 
of one of the bridges which here 
span the Jhelum. Were endurance 
alone a test of high art, these 
bridges might vie with better known 
structures of the kind, although 
they are, in truth, the most ricketty 
looking in existence. The piers 
are merely rough stacks of timber, 
across which again are placed trans- 
verse beams of pine to form a foot- 
way; but this pine is the deodar, 
which nothing but fire seems able 
to destroy. These bridges are said 
to be 600 years old. The one 
burnt in 1870 had a double row of 
shops running along either side, 
like old London Bridge. 

On arrival at the European quar- 
ter we found all the bungalows full, 
and the encamping gromitls white 
with the tents of visitors. Having 
left my camp standing at Bandipore 
with the intention of returning 
there shortly, I lived on in my 
boat, which was comfortable enough. 

On the 5th of June we were 
again in camp at Erin, some three 
miles from Bandipore, amid a grove 
of mulberry trees, with fruit already 
ripening upon them. Here we 
remained a week, when we moved 
off vid Bandipore to Alsoo, en route 
to the beautiful Lolab valley. Some 

Bombay jugglers — two rather pretty 
girls amongst them — enlivened our 
camp in the evening with their 
performances. On the 11th, after 
a stifBsh climb, we were gratified 
at the top of the Alsoo pass with a 
fine view of the park-like sceneiy 
of the valley of Lolab ; could see 
its pretty and scattered hamlets 
nestling under groves of stately 
chenor and walnut trees — the dis- 
tant liver winding through its 
further extremity — and on either 
side the lofty hills clothed with 
pine forests, forming a deep umbra- 
geous setting for this perfect picture 
of quiet beauty. 

By a very steep path we descended 
to a village, and encamped under 
some splendid walnut trees ; and, 
in three other easy marches we 
reached Kufwarah, m here the valley 
narrows, but beyond which it opens 
out into two other offsets of the 
main valley. We remained at 
Xufwarah about a fortnight, shoot- 
ing, and eating cherries, which were 
fine and plentiful, when crossing a 
range of hills we found ourselves 
at Boomhai, in the Cashmere 

By this time the mulberries had 
ripened, and this fruit is eagerly 
devoured by all animals about. I 
have been amused to see cows, 
horses,dogs and sheep.all eating away 
in the same grove, perhaps under 
the same tree, into which motley 
assemblage an old hen would come 
clucking with her chickens for their 
feed. And as for the *' humans,'* • 
they take their allowance also. I 
have watched an old lady followed 
by half a dozen children proceed to 
a mulberry tree, give the branches 
a good shaking, and then walk off 
to her work in the fields, leaving 
her progeny to grub up and fill 
themselves with the fallen fruit 

From Boomhai we marched to 
Sopoor. We found the bungalow 
there fully occupied. One of its 
occupants, an ofiQcer of a native 


Wanderings in Elysium. 


cavalry regiment, haviDg a pack of 
hounds with him, brought to the 
Yalley, not with the intention of 
hunting them, but to give them the 
benefit of a cool climate, during a 
season that would have killed them 
off like flies in the Punjab. This 
is the great expense attending the 
ownership of hounds in India. 
Liike delicate ladies there, they 
require a six months' residence in 
the hills. It was a never ending 
delight to the inhabitants of Sopoor 
to see these hounds fed. The 
population of the town assembled 
a full hour before feeding time 
opposite the kennels, and waited 
about, sitting, smoking, and talking, 
till the dogs were let forth to their 
food ; then came a hush, and then 
the rapid guzzling and crunching 
followed, and then the crowd broke 
up, to reassemble for the same 
sight next day. 

At Sopoor I dismissed my shika- 
rees. These men are no doubt 
necessary companions for sports- 
men, but, as a rule, they know 
little of their trade. They are keen 
sighted to a marvellous degree, and 
have a certain sort of independent 
frankness of manner, not without 
its charm to one sick of the fawning 
servility of the natives of the 
plains. Their conversation is not 
varied; generally dwelling on the 
sahibs whom they have served in 
previous years, whom, according to 
your good or ill-nature, they discuss 
as excellent or doubtful characters 
for sport or generosity. 

But the native whom on these 
wanderings I came to appreciate 
best was my khidmutgar or butler. 
This fellow, anything but a strong 
looking man, and not very young, 
after his walk over these cruel 
paths, sometimes of near on thirty 
miles, in a climate rigorous for 
him, would settle down in perfect 
good humour to his work, having 
first helped to pitch my tent and 
his own, and unpacked and laid out 

what things I required, and in a 
short time turn me out a savoury 
dinner in many a dreary solitude. 

Pleasant it was to sniff up first 
the sweet scent of the pine logs as 
their misty vapour curled languidly 
away ; and, secondly, pervading and 
finally dominating the other, the 
still sweeter odour of the culinary 
compound destined for my con- 
sumption. To the which full jus- 
tice having been done, then and 
only then did this hard-working 
one proceed to his solitary enjoy- 
ment of the day — the cooking and 
eating of his own frugal meal. 
Next morning he was hard at work 
again, foremost in the striking of 
tents and packing; and so ever 
from day to day — not once had I 
to check him or find fault with 
him during this vagabond ex- 

Not bad in his way — but still far 
inferior as a servant— was the 
bheestie or water-carrier. Strong 
as most of his class are — willing 
enough, too, as they are generally 
also— his power of enduring fatigue 
was not so great as that of the 
other, and more than once he 
broke down on a day's journey. This 
fellow was an enormous eater : and 
whether it was that he habitually 
eat too much (and I believe he did), 
or that he eat too fast, his powers 
of digestion were quite unequal to 
his capacity for swallowing, and our 
camp was often made hideous by 
his nightmare bowlings; from which 
he could only be induced to desist 
by severe and immediate pommel- 
lings administered by all within 
striking distance of him. Yet ho 
was not without a certain humour 
of a practical turn, as this anecdote 
may show. In camp some time 
afterwards a neighbour of mine 
wanting a bath told him, through a 
servant, to fetch water. This he 
refused to do, and the gentleman 
having complained to me, I. mis- 
understanding the affair, so far sa 


Wanderings in Elysium. 

to suppose he had refused the 
sahih personally his request, 
desired the gentleman to punish 
him how he pleased. Thereupon 
the hheestie rushed away in high 
dudgeon, hut relieved his feelings 
hy a furious assault on one of the 
servants of the said sahib, who 
thus acted most unwillingly vi- 
cariously for his master — indeed 
this latter unfortunate servant 
had suffered previously in a quite 
surprising and ludicrous manner. 
His master having called loudly 
and repeatedly for him from his 
tent and getting no reply, came 
forth to look for him, and to his 
astonishment saw him close by, and 
paying no attention to the sum- 
mons ; nay, more, just as the sa- 
hib appeared the man threw him- 
self into what seemed to be a some- 
what insulting attitude, bowing his 
head in quite another direction, and 
so elevating another part towards 
his master, who laid his stick smartly 
across it. On explanation being 
made, it appeared that tlie man was 
praying in the direction of Mecca, 
like a good Mahommedan, and 
was so r^t in devotion as to be un- 
able to pay attention to outward 
sounds or movements.The other Ma- 
hommedans about the place roared 
with laughter over the business, 
and it was a standing joke with 
them long after, whenever the man 
was not forthcoming at call, that he 
was at his prayers — ** Numaz purta** 
was always uttered with a broad 

On our way back to Srinugger, 
by boat, we visited the famous lake 
of Manusbul. You enter it by a 
narrow canal a short way below the 
village of Sumbul, where the Jhelum 
is bridged, and after a few hundred 
yards of tracking reach the lake, 
silent and solitary amid the lofty 
hills. A terrible gloom seemed 
broodfng upon it, only my skiflf 
stirred its waters, and, I believe, 
the only then inhabitant of its 

shores, was a quaint anchorit 
employs his leisure time, of 
he has much to spare, in di 
his own grave. Later in th( 
Manusbul is a favourite res 
the Europeans, who go to enj 
delicious peaches which grow 
and which are supposed to l 
property of the gniv»-diggin( 
mit. At the tim0?^)of <mr jo 
the lake was mudt overgrowz 
large-leaved lotus plants. It 1 
to be very deep in parts, and 
well believdtr^t by the abru] 
with which the hills rise abou 

At Srinugger I found mys< 
vited, with the other visitors 
dinner at the palace. We wei 
to follow our own devices i 
matter of costume, and to sei 
knives and forks and other 

Accordingly, embarking wi 
faithful butler, I soon reachc 
palace stairs, and ascending 
through files of Sepoys and 
attendants, arrived at a bi 
overlooking the river, where 
introduced to the Maharajal 
received by him with a hand 
I then withdrew to a chai 
looked about. The guests, 
peans all, were ranged alon 
sides of the terrace, to righ 
left of the Maharajah, on chai 
up some in knickerbockers, 
in undress uniform, white o 
a few in coirect evening attir 
some in such incorrect costu 
no Sartor Resartus oould desc 

In front of us, on earpets, 
twenty paces from tha.Mahs 
danced and screamed with 
harsh voices (made harsher p< 
by tlieir well-known addiction 
and brandy) some of the bes 
ing Nachnees (dancing girls) 

Gaudily and gorgeously 
risoned, vibrating to a volu] 
measure and tingling with 
ringing (when their song ces 
times) like the ifound from i 



Wanderings in Elysium. 


mese Fkigoda top when its bells are 
gently stirred by the night-wind, 
tiiey east their half-sleepy glances 
amongst their friends and admirers; 
whilst the zittara and the drum 
behind them threw an occasional 
dash of savagery into the show. 
Eyer and anon as one couple of 
dancers retired, another came into 
their places, carrying on the •* Nach" 
with its running accompaniment of 
song until dinner was announced 
and the Maharajah rose, and his 
gaests rose with him. His High- 
ness bows them to their feeding 
place, but does not accompany them 
to table, which though loaded with 
good and expensive things enough 
to make a capital banquet, yet from 
want of management, is more like a 
nide and boisterous pic-nic than a 
feast worthy of the hospitable amphi- 
tiyon and the hall in which it is 
given. For the room is elaborately 
ornamented with papier mache 
work of most cunning device, bril- 
liant with gold and all bright co- 
lours, and of noble proportions. 

After dinner we adjourned to the 
terrace, where was more ** natching." 
Contnurj to all Indian customs, 
however, there was no after-dinner 
smoking, for our host is a Sikh. 
The only dissipations in which the 
iSi^owers of Gooroo Govind will not 
allow themselves to indulge are beef 
and tobacco. The slaughter of kine 
18 not even permitted in the Maha- 
rajah's territory, so that the wander- 
ing Briton who finds excellent 
h^rds of cattle in the valley, may 
not indulge in his favourite viand. 
I have even heard our countrymen 
complain, like Alexander Selkirk, 
that the tameness of the beasts was 
shocking to them ! Doubtless they 
know they are safe from the butcher. 
About ten o'clock our party broke 

On the 5 th of July I attended the 
ihneral of an English officer who 
died on that day at Srinugger. A 
large eonpQnrse of natives assem- 

bled and behaved very reverently 
during the service, which was read 
by a clergyman ; and then a small 
. party of Cashmere Sepoys brought 
their flints three times down, with 
as many clicks, to represent volleys 
fired over the grave. And so — far 
from home and friends — one more 
tenant was added to that quiet spot 
where the long avenue of poplars 
starting from the *' Throne of Soly- 
man" closes in upon the river near 
to the first bridge above the city. 

On the 13th, Sir Henry Durand, 
Lieutenant-Governor of the Punjab, 
arrived on a friendly visit to the 

Kungbeer Singh, whilst, like all 
Eastern Princes and gentlemen, 
lavish of hospitality, is less than 
others of them addicted to show. 
Occasionally, he held a review of 
troops, at which, owing to the awk- 
wardness of men, or commanders, 
sad accidents would happen ; but 
he seemed more to enjoy an evening 
row in his pinnace on the beautiful 
Jhelum. His pinnace was a long, 
narrow boat, worked by a dozen or 
more men on each side, armed with 
-short heart-shaped paddles; a few 
hor.-te and foot soldiers kept pace 
with its progress on either bank. 
On these occasions he was generally 
accompanied by two of his younger 
sons, who occupied the raised dais 
beside him, ana were as full of play 
as young kittens. 

Above I mentioned that accidents 
occurred at the reviews sometimes ; 
one of a curiously horrible kind 
took place during my stay. A 
tumbril on the right of the line of 
Sepo V s by some mischance exploded, 
whilst the men with open pouches 
were getting out cartridges for their 
own use ; the fire communicated 
with these, and ran along the line 
like & feu dejoie J killing some and 
injuring many others. 

Getting tired of the capital, I, char- 
tered a doongah again, and placing 
my effects on board, started it up the 


Wanderings in Elysium, 

river, walking along the bank to my 
£rst haltiug-placot On the second 
day we passed Fampoor, a large 
town, where the river is bridged, 
and encamped for the night close 
under a kurevwah. 

These kureywahs nre amongst 
the most curious features of the 
valley. It appears tliat the Valley 
of Cashmere a long time ago — very 
many of Uncle Toby*s '* hundreds 
of years since" — was one large lake, 
and that the waters ever getting 
higher, were forced to find them- 
selves an exit, which they found at 
BaramooUa, whence the Jhelum 
escapes onwards to the plains ; and 
that as this rocky exit got worn 
deeper and deeper, so the waters of 
the lake subsided lower and lower, 
till above them appeared islands 
with flat surfaces, for these had been 
the bed of the lake, and as the 
waters sunk still lower, came to 
view the larger surface, the present 
valley, and the Jhelum became, what 
it now is, a winding and abounding 
river — except where it loses its 
existence for awhile as if to remind 
it of its birth iu the WuUoor lake ; 
but these islands left by the earlier 
subsidence of the waters are the 
kureywahs. Their sides in some 
places are steep as artificial walls, 
and their plateaux mostly unculti- 
vated, owing to the difficulty of 
irrigating them. 

On the 16th, we reached Awunti- 
pore, where are the ruins of a couple 
of temples outside the town; only 
the gateways show their former 
outline, hardly one stone has been 
left upon another where the sanc- 
tuaries once stood. One of the 
sites is surrounded by a curious 
galleried terrace, somewhat below 
the present ground surface. This 
town is said to have been the capital 
of Cashmere in remote times when 
the valley was thickly peopled — it 
is now a wretched village of about 
a hundred inhabitants. Further, at 
Bijbehara, the river is agaip bridged, 

and there a brand new temj 
pleasantly situated in a well wc 
bend of the river. I reacl] 
village called KumhuJ^ at 8 
and pitched my tent on the 1 
after much severe fighting wit! 
Pariah dogs. The river is 
navigable above this, consequ< 
leaving the boat, we walked < 
Islamabad, about a mile furthei 
encamped behind the Mahan 
palace there, and close to a c< 
of tanks full of sacred fish. *] 
tanks are fed by fountains is! 
from the hill-side. The • 
(devotee) of the spot, peiformc 
devotions to the sacred ston^ 
which there are two in the i 
tank, whilst my tent was 
pitched. This holy man had 
a vow of perpetual silence, 
was, I believe, a pilgrim froi 
Calcutta, where he had fori 
held some employment in a gc 
ment office, so that he is al 
write answers to inquiriei 
English, speak them, as I sa: 
must not. The temple at ^ 
he worships is supposed to 
been built about the commence 
of our own era, and was < 
•• Sahasra-Lingam," or ** thoi 
emblems," there having be€ 
many representations of the d 

I was still more edified b 
religious observances of an 
Mahommcdan, who advanced 1 
Jogee, and made his salaam ai 
o Bering, then sprinkled both s 
stones with the tank water, 
which, proceeding to some dis 
he spread his carpet with i 
regard to the Eiblah, and th 
commenced his devotions to tl 
seen god. Of a verity, thouj 
here at last is religious liberal 

At this time, pilgrims 
collecting here with the intent 
proceeding to the cave of Ub 
nath ; the journey to whiph 
is attended with much difficult 
danger. The object of worst 
the cave is a mere conical bL 


Wanderings in Elysium. 


ice, formed by the freezing of the 
droppings from the roof. 1 did not 
care to join the devotees to this 
shrine, and indeed I am thankful 
to have been born under influences 
that need no such display of 
religious enthusiasm as must be 
indulged in by these worshippers. 
I take the liberty of borrowing from 
Doctor Ince his description of tlie 

•* Arrived at Panjturni, the cave 
is on the other side of the moun- 
tain, about two or three miles 
distant, and the road to it is steep 
and rocky ; the pilgrims, male and 
female, strip and bathe in the 
Panjturni streams (these are freshly 
distilled from a glacier), and then 
either entirely naked, or provided 
only with a small apron of birch 
hark, gathered on the way, they 
rush frantically up the hill, yelling 
and shouting as if they were pos- 
sessed by demons, and in this 
frenzied state they reach the mouth 
of the sacred caveni." 

On their way back, they are 
likely to be buried by the avalanches. 
Amongst these pilgrims, I met and 
conversed with a havildar (seijeant) 
of one of our own Ghoorka regi- 
ments, who, with his wife, was 
journeying to Ummernath. They 
were middle-aged people, and all 
my inquiries could get no sufficient 
answer as to the ends sought for 
by them in so trying an enterprise. 
I found, however, that the havildar 
intended to *' boil his peas " to the 
extent of not bathing in the glacier 
streams. That ablution, he said, 
was optional with the pilgrims. 

An English friend of mine, 
shooting ihex up the Liddur valley, 
told me he had entered the cave, 
and penetrated it to the sanctuary. 
He saw the conical ice block, and 
a small stone, carved roughly in the 
shape of a cow, which he took up, 
with a Briton's desire of carrying 
away a visible memento of his visit ; 
but which he dropped again on second 

thoughts of the awful sanctity of 
the spot, and the possible discontent 
and perhaps revenge of his Hindoo 
followers. Just as well ! It was a 
badly executed effigy of a cow to 
him, and nothing more ; but to them 
it typified some of the most sacred 
of their beliefs. 

I left Islamsbad on the 1 8th, for a 
village called Choorut twelve miles 
distant, having to walk most of the 
way knee deep through rice fields 
and water-courses. The trees about 
were weighed down with ripe plums, 
apricots and walnuts, and 1 went 
out in the afternoon through some 
thick jungle, having heard that two 
bears had been seen by a villager 
fighting over the newly slain carcase 
of a bullock, killed by a leopard. 
We found the bullock pretty well 
picked by the bears, which, however 
had retired for slumber after their 
gorge. Whilst resting in the jungle, 
I heard a deep purring, almost in 
my ears ; at the same time, one of 
my men presented a curious 
spectacle of terror. He was in the 
habit of applying CoUyrlum to his 
eyelids, and this adornment coupled 
with his fright at seeing a large 
leopard so close, for he saw the 
beast, though owing to an inter- 
vening bush, I did not, made his 
eyeballs appear to have started 
clean out of their sockets. With 
rifle ready I paused, hoping for a 
shot; but the leopard stole away, 
without giving me a chance. 

Here we were at the extreme 
eastern end of the valley, and within 
a couple of easy marches of the 
Bunihall pass, 9,200 feet above 
sea level, one of the entrances to 
Elysium for outer worldlings ; and 
here I remained a few days mooning 
about and seeing something of 
village life. 

In India one hears much of the 
oppressive rule of the Maharajah, 
and of the misery of the people of 
Cashmere. As to the former, I 
believe it is not a very kind «wwd. 


Wanderings in Elysium. 


considerate one, but of the latter 
I can fairly say that all through 
Cashmere I saw a people more con- 
tented, more comfortably housed, 
better clothed, and evidently better 
fed than those of our provinces in 
India. Never in Cashmere did I 
see such miserable objects as are 
the Indian field hands, creatures 
lean, naked, and appallingly abject, 
and, from appearance, without joy 
in thi^ iife, or hope in a future. 

Talking once to a Cashmeeree 
about taxes, he illustrated the 
Pundit mode of collection thus: 
taking a stick, he broke it into 
three pieces of equal length, then 
putting two on one side he said 
they were the Maharajah's share of 
all produce. **Well," I said, "if 
you get the third to yourselves you 
are better off than the people in 
Hindoostan." **Wait." said he, 
and breaking pieces off his third he 
continued, *' that goes to the Than- 
adr, that to the Lumbadar, that to 
the Kotwal, and so on," till holding 
up a very small fragment, he wound 
up with a laugh, ** that is my 
share!*' But when taxes are paid 
in kind no doubt there are methods 
of evading full payment. The 
people of ^e Valley are almost en- 
tirely Mahommedans ; the tax ga- 
therers are Hindoos, and the Royal 
family are Sikhs ! 

The Gashmeerees are a cheerful 
people, full of song and gossip. 
The women, especially, the Hindoo 
women of the Pundit class, are 
good-looking, though not remark- 
ably so, whilst they are generally 
abominably dirty. The ladies 
whom travellers see most of are 
Mahommedans of the city, and not 
as handsome as women of the same 
class in the Punjab, or throughout 
India; they are much fairer-com- 
plexioned however. They are al- 
, most weighed down under an accu- 
mulation of jewellery, consisting of 
earrings, noserings, bangles, and 
other such ornaments. These 

ladies have to pay a heavy tax to 
the Government. 

I next proceeded to Atcbibul, en* 
camping in the gardens surround^ 
ing the springs. There was a large 
and pleasant party of travellers en- 
camped under the fine trees. The 
springs of Atchibul are famous — 
they start from the hillside with a 
force and volume only to be rea- 
lized by sight ; a few yards below 
their birthplace the accumulated 
waters form a wide, deep and rapid 
stream. Looking at them, one can 
well fancy how the waters leaped 
to light when the Hebrew Prophet 
struck the rock in Horeb! The 
natives assert that these springs 
are only a continuation of a river 
lost in a limestone formation, some 
miles distant; and as g^ood sised 
trout come out from the recesses of 
the mountain, for we used to catch 
them in the very springs, there can be 
little doubt that the belief is a cor- 
rect one. The garden about is now 
much dismantled, but it contains 
two large tanks with many artificial 
fountains ; these are seldom set at 
play, the water being usually turned 
off for purposes of irrigation. 

One day, here, we organized a 
drive through the jungle ; collecting 
many men, we sent them in line 
into the bush on the lulls above, 
taking post ourselves where we 
might make fire with effect, but 
only started a large sounder of pig; 
some of these we wounded, but did 
not secure. These we might have 
eaten ; but our Mahommedans would 
not have touched. The Sikhs, how- 
ever, are partial to the flesh of the 
wild boar. 

Martund, a ruined temple of 
lai'ge proportions, is situated on the 
kurey wah, a few miles firom Atchi- 
bul. It is also called Kora Pandun, 
and claims an almost fabulous an- 
tiquity. The blocks of stones used 
in its erection are of enormous size, 
and there is much that is peculiarly 
striking and awe-inspiring in the 


Wanderings in Elysium. 


massive stmciure in its dreary and 
desolate solitude. 

Other spots of interest neighbour 
on. Atchibul — Bawun with its splen- 
did spring. The caves of Boomjoo, 

At the end of the month I re- 
tamed to Srinngger, and encamped 
under some fine trees in the 
Chenar Bagh, on the bank of a 
canal leading to the Dhnl or city 
lake. The city now felt hot, and 
owing to the number of people, 
who, with their followers, had been 
encamped about, the European 
quarter was somewhat unpleasant. 
Ko sanitaiy measures were taken 
for the cleanness of this part ; but 
surely the English Resident might 
be allowed to levy a slight tax on 
all comers for the purpose of carry- 
ing out such. These were always 
rea^y to subscribe liberally, when 
called on, for boat races and other 
absurdities, and would, no doubt, 
have willingly contributed towards 
80 necessary an improvement. 

On August 1, we left Srinugger 
e» route to Sonamurg, a plateau 
high amongst the mountains. Our 
boat dropped doVrn stream to 
Shadipore, and then turned up the 
Scinde river, which flows out of 
the Anchar lake a short way above 
that town. Crossing this lake to- 
wards evening we were nearly de- 
voured by mosquitoes. Disembarked 
next morning at Ganderbul, and 
marched along the Scinde valley 
to a village where we had to lay in 
anpplies for our residence at 
Sonamurg; these were only ob- 
tained with difficulty. On the 14th 
we moved on to Gond, a strikingly 
picturesque village, built on a high 
bluff above the river, where the 
valley narrows to little more than 
the width of the stream ; and on 
the 5th continued to Gangangair. 
The Scinde valley which is in 
ateady ascent the whole way from 
Ganderbul almost closes at Gan- 
gangair with a high and precipitous 

hill, round whose base the river 
winds swiftly. At all these halting 
grounds fleas were very bothersome. 
On the 6th our path lay part of the 
way by the riverside, amongst and 
over enormous boalders, the stream 
close by foaming along almost 
white in colour, a perfect cataract. 
Sonamurg trends from NE. to 
SW., and derives, its name, some 
say, from its yellow flowers, 
*' Golden Down," others assert 
from gold having been found there. I 
found none, I know, and have found 
but little of that charming metal, I 
grieve to say, in my wanderings 
anywhere. The murg is pleasantly 
varied with steep grassy knolls, 
with hero and there clumps of deo- 
dar and birch trees. The higher 
hiUs about, to North and East, still 
bore on them much snow. It is 
at an elevation of about 10,000 feet 
above sea level, and is close to the 
Zojil^, pass by which runs the road 
to Leh, fourteen stages further. On 
the murg we bought excellent sheep 
for three chilkies each (3s. 9d. 
English money), but we were quite 
dependent for other supplies on the 
valley below. Our nights here 
were delightfully cool, but the days 
too hot for much exertion. 

After a week's halt we struck 
our camp in order to visit Gulmurg, 
the fashionable resort of visitors 
during the heat of July and August 
and lying quite on the other side of 
Cashmere valley. 

On the morning of the 15th of 
August 1 found myself again em- 
barked and crossing the WuUoor 
lake amidst clouds of mosquitoes, 
who forced their intimacy upon me, 
notwithstanding all my efibrts to 
avoid them. This time I was glad 
to find the Sopoor bungalow empty 
and to get a couple of days* rest in 
a house of some sort. Marched on 
the 17th to Burra Koontra (thir- 
teen miles), and on the 18th to 
Gulmurg, passing through Baba- 
mirishi,the^shrine of aMahommedan 


Wanderings in Elysium. 


saint The ascent from the latter 
place to the marg is exceedingly 

We pitched our camp in one of 
the well-wooded spurs overlooking 
the marg, building ns besides an 
arbour out of pine trees, wherein 
to dine and at times enjoy the 
grateful weed. One of our party 
who had been seriously ill in the 
valley, rapidly recovered health 
and strength here at this elevation 
of 8,000 feet. 

Gulmurg, the "Down of Boses," 
is a long open plain (it is about 
three miles in length and half a 
mile in width) surrounded by pine 
clad heights, with a sluggish 
stream running through it. The 
visitors, of whom there must have 
been about a hundred, were en- 
camped amongst the pines on the 
ridges about, which received tem- 
porary names from ther owners, or 
outlook, or other peculiarity. A 
rac9 meeting was actually organized 
here, which passed off famously ; 
and then there were picnics and 
excursions for the killing of time. 
But the dolce far niente was 
quite enough for one : to sit with- 
out emotion, hope, or aim, and 
smoke your cigar, for you knew you 
were sitting there in cloth clothing 
in the month of July or August ; 
nay, that you required towards 
evening the pleasant glow of a fire 
of pine logs, and you thought how 
would it be now with you at, say 
Mooltan or Lahore ? Ah ! you 
must be an old Indian to appreciate 
the enjoyment derivable from such 
a quesjiou put to yourself at an al- 
titude of 8,000 feet above the sea. 

The grapes and peaches were ripe 
when 1 got back to Srin agger at 
the end of August, and delicious 
they were. The vines grow up the 
tallest poplar trees about the en- 
camping grounds, and show their 
tempting clusters of fruit from high 
above you. An attempt was made 
some years ago to turn their juices 

into wine; but it failed. Never- 
theless, Cashmere is intended by 
nature to be a wine - producing 
country, and posterity will smack 
its lips yet, no doubt, over the vin- 
tage of Shalimar or a bouquet of 
Noor Mahal. 

And these names, so redolent of 
Lalla Rookh, remind me that I 
have not yet made the round of 
the famous lake ; for it was only 
in the last week of my stay that I 
did visit it. 

The lake sung by Thomas 
Moore, is the Dhul, or city lake, 
and is beyond question the 
most beautiful, and from associa- 
tions, historical and poetical, the 
most interesting of all the Cash- 
mere lakes. 

Sending my boat on to the Drog- 
jun, or sluice-gate, whence the lake 
waters are drained off by the Sunt- 
i-kul canal into the Jhelnm, I 
walked along the magnificent 
avenue of poplars, leading from the 
upper city bridge to the mountain 
height called " Solyman*s Throne.'* 
I had already scaled this rough and 
tiresome hill, on whose highest sum- 
mit stands a temple of great anti- 
quity, dating, indeed, some hun- 
dreds of years anterior to the 
Christian era. From " Solyman's 
Throne " a fine view is to be had 
of the Valley, with the tortuous Jhe- 
lum winding through it, the Pun- 
jal range of mountains and the far 
snow-clad pinnacles of Thibet. Oa 
the other side, below, lies the lake 
with its island of Chenars and Nis- 
hat Bagh and Shalimar Gardens 
and floating islets. 

Embarking at the sluice-gate, 
we sped across the lake, passing 
the Nusseeb Bagh and its stately 
grove of plane trees, the Golden 
island, the Char Chenar island, 
<&k;., till we reached the canal lead- 
ing up to the Shalimar. The mos- 
quitoes on the water were most 
troublesome, and somewhat marred 
the pleasure derivable from, a con- 


Wanderings in Elysium. 


templation of one of the loveliest 
of earthly panoramas. Not desir- 
ing a renewal of their attentions, 
I sent my boat back, intending to 
-walk round the lake, visiting the 
various objects of interest on its 

A long double quay leads by the 
canal to the terraces, where are 
placed the pavilion and gardens 
known as the Shalimar. A suc- 
cession of basins with artificial 
fountains continue the line of the 
canal, but were dry, and here and 
there in a ruinous state. The 
'water can, however, be laid on 
from a stream rising in the hills 
behind. On the upper terrace of 
the garden is built the beautiful 
marble pavilion, described already 
by so many visitors to the Valley. 
The roof of this pavilion is sup- 
ported by twelve massive columns 
of black marble, and in the angles 
are chambers with partitions of 
-white marble lattice work from 
which the fountains and cascades 
can be seen. 

Continuing my walk, I reached 
shortly the Nishat Bagb. This is a 
large, but b«adly kept, garden, in 
which are some magnificent trees 
and another large pavilion. 

Further on is the Chushma Sha- 
hi (royal fountain), where is also 
a pavilion in the midst of a pretty 
gskrden. All these places are 
thrown open to travellers, who 
can use them for pic-nics or re- 
sidence ; but it is a sad pity that 
the Maharajah should be so care- 
less (ignorant he cannot be) of the 
great value attached to them by 
cultivated minds throughout the 

It is ever so in the East. The 
mightiest monuments, raised to per- 
petuate the memory of their build- 
ers, are allowed to make the endea- 
vour vrithout effort on the part of 
succeeding generations to partici- 
pate in it ; and even such build- 
ings as the Taj and Akbar*s Tomb 

would have been allowed to fall 
into decay and ruin, had the Mus- 
sulman continued lord paramount 
at Agra. A rich man will build a 
Mosque, or Temple, or Tank with 
its gh4ts and terraces ; his son and 
his grandson will raise similar 
buildings close by, but will not 
condesC/Cnd to repair the damages 
done by time to the work, how- 
ever magnificent it may be, of 
their ancestor. 

The hills surrounding the City 
lake are steep, lofty, and of 
gloomy aspect ; circling their base, 
I reached the pass between the 
Pandoo Chuk and " Throne of 

•' The mountainous portal that opes, 
Sublime from that valley of bliss, to 
the world ! " 

The god of day had sunk be- 
hind the mountains, and already 
unfurled his banner of radiance 
over other scenes of our beautiful 
globe, but on none more beautiful 
than that about me. 

All the halt and blind beggars of 
Srinugger used to assemble about 
my camp on Sundays noisily de- 
manding alms, ' and persistently 
waiting for their distribution. One 
terrible woman with a child — she 
was neither lame nor blind though 
— would whine out for an hour at 
a time, " Sahib, I am hungry : " 
{Bhooha hyn), with a fearful nasal 
delivery of the N, whilst she was 
the picture of well-fed dirt and 
indolence. It was always plea- 
santer to give away a fist full of 
coppers, and so get rid of these 
pests, than work oneself into a 
lever of bad language for the 
same purpose — I have tried both 

About this time capital snipe 
and partridge (chikor) shooting 
was to be had, for the latter using 
beaters along the hill sides. A 
question arises : if some at- 
tempt at preservation is not made^ 


Wanderings in Elyium. 


how long will shooting be worth 
the following in Cashmere ? 
— I do not speak now of 
small game. But to the reckless 
slaughter of bears, ibex, and bar- 
asing, some stoppage should be pat 
by the MaharajtJi. Many a sports- 
man (P) will shoot his ten or twen- 
ty bears, with whose skins he is 
sorely troubled thereafter, and pot 
female ibex and barasing without 
compunction; a heavy bag being 
considered by some desirable, en- 
couraged thereto by the shikarees 
whose credit is involved in a large 
slaughter, no matter how carried 
out. All restriction on the num- 
ber of yearly visitors to the Valley 
has been withdrawn, the Indian 
Government having discontinued 
the system of passes heretofore 
prevailing ; and now in the old 
shooting grounds one runs as great 
a chance of being shot as of shoot- 

A party looking for bears in the 
Lolab Valley, in 1870, were only 
saved from sudden death at the 
hands of a Briton by one of them 
striking a light for his pipe. They 
had seen what appeared to be a 
native (an Englishman in a turban) 
stealing round them, as if watching 
their movements from curiosity, 
when one luckily struck a match, 
and the stalker came forward, let- 
ting his hammers down to half- 
cock, to explain to them that, being 
short-sighted, he had fancied them 
a group of bears under a mulberry- 
tree, and was about to fire at them 
when he saw their match alight! 
These gentlemen left the neigh- 
bourhood next morning in sole pos- 
session of their short-sighted ac- 

Leaving Srinugger on my return 
to the plains, our first march was 
to Ramoo (18 miles), where we put 
up in a baradarree, situated in a 
small garden. Our second (another 
18 miles) to Hirpore, was a most 
unpleasant one, performed under a 

blazing sun. I should have re- 
marked before this, perhaps, that 
all m V wandering^ about the Valley 
and its adjoining hills were done 
on foot. On this day I lay down 
several times under the bushes 
skirting the road, which here was 
devoid of trees, to cool my head, 
which I thought at times would 
have performed the Yankee cere- 
mony of "bursting up." Arrived 
at Hirpore, which was in steady 
ascent from Bamoo, the change of 
temperature was remarkable. It 
became so cold at night that we 
required a fire in camp. On onr 
next march we lost sight of the 
beautiful Valley : part of it lay 
along the rocky bed of the Bem- 
biara river ; and then came a stiff 
climb to Aliabad Serai. The road 
over the Punjal pass, though not 
difficult to a fair pedestrian, is 
however, not of a very easy kind. 
It must be sadly deteriorated 
from the Imperial Causeway, over 
which the Mogul emperors passed 
with their elephante and followers 
on their progresses to the South. 
Bemier, indeed, relates that some 
elephants here lost their footing 
and fell with some ladies of the 
Zenana down the precipice. It 
must have required much coaxing 
and punishment to induce those 
sagacious beaste to venture their 
ppnderous forms along these moun- 
tain sides. 

Aliabad Serai was, even now, at 

the end of September, bitterly cold. 

Its elevation is 10,350 feet. From 

the end of November the guard of 

Sepoys left here freeze in solitude 

till the spring, well advanced, melts 

the snows, which have accumulated 

above and around them. Our next 

march was over the pass. It was 

rather steep for a mile or two ; then 

came a long murg to traverse, 

frozen here and there, to a few 

hute at the summit, one belonging 

io the Fuqueer of the locality ; then 

followed a break-neck descent, over 


Wa/nderings in Elysium. 


boulders, of a coaple of miles, when 
we opened ont a pretty waterfall 
close to the Chatterpani river, after 
which we had another trying ascent 
of half a mile, and then an average 
path to Pooshiana, eleven miles sd- 

At Pooshiana, all the available 
^ronnd being bnilt npon, travellers 
pitch their tents on the flat roofs 
of the village houses. Here oar 
native servants foand a small bazaar, 
where they bargained and gossiped 
to their heart's content. 

Next day to Bnmzmgoola (10 
miles), principally along the 
Chatterpani, whose stony bed 

has to be crossed and re-crossed 
aboat a dozen times. The scenery 
along its banks is wild and grand, 
varied with many beaatiful water- 
falls, one named the Nooree Cham, 
the finest of these, is often missed 
by the traveller, owing to its being 
almost concealed in a narrow ra- 
vine. It is close to Barrnmgoola, 
at which place there is a small 
serai built of mud, bat clean and 

The next march took as across 
the Raltan Pir and into Thunna 
Mnndi, where I found myself again 
on the road by which I had 
travelled upwards to Cashmere. 

G. S. 


Servia, and the Slavs. 



Part IV. 

To an Englishman, the most in- 
teresting aspect of the Slavonic 
question is the relation which sub- 
sists between Russia, the great 
Slavonic power of the north, and 
the kindred races inhabiting the 
Balkhan peninsula. Either Russia 
has an ambition to annex these 
races to her own empire, or she has 
not. The Czar has recently de- 
clared that she has no such ambi- 
tion. Are we to believe him ? 

The answer to this question is 
not to be found in his casual utter- 
ances to diplomatists or soldiers. 
These are the mere current coin of 
diplomacy, and they are generally 
as meaningless as they arc valueless. 
The policy of Russia in the direc- 
tion of the Mediterranean and the 
East can only be known by an 
examination of her history since 
the days of Peter the Great, 

Perhaps no man knew Russian 
intrigue more thoroughly than Lord 
Palmerston. His diary contains 
the following entry, dated Frank- 
fort, 21st August, 1841 : ** Dined in 
the evening at Anselm Rothschild's 
. . . Fiquelmont was there. I com- 
plimented him on the great moral 
support Austria had given us 
in regard to the Treaty of July, 
1840. He was aware that such 
support helped us, not only abroad 
but at home. He argued, errone- 
otisly^ I thinks that Russia cannot 
really desire to extend herself to 

the south,. because her. real strength, 
military and commercial, lies to the 
north. The bulk of her nobles are 
in the north, and the distance from 
Petersburgh to New York is not 
much greater than from Odessa to 
Gibraltar, and there her commerce 
is only half way to its market; 
besides which the expense of 
transport in Southern Russia is so 
great that to carry grain more than 
250 versts costs the whole value of 
the grain. All this is specious, 
but utterly fallacious. All Govern- 
ments, and especially arbitrary 
ones, covet extension of territory 
for political more than economical 
considerations, and to say that 
Russia does not covet extension to 
the soath is to deny the records of 

The Emperor of All the Russias 
was at considerable pains some 
weeks ago to explain to Lord 
Augustus Loftns that all that had 
been said or written about a will 
of Peter the Great and the aim 
of Catherine II., were illusions 
and phantoms ; that they never 
existed in reality, and he con- 
sidered that the acquisition of 
Constantinople would be a misfor- 
tune for Russia. Prince Gortscha- 
koff emphatically corroborated the 
statement of his Imperial master. 

We are not much inclined to 
discuss the question of the genuine- 
ness of Peter's testament. A man's 

• Lord Dalling's "Life of Lord PaLmeraton," vol iiL pp. 163, 154. 


Servia, and the Slavs. 


estate may be a valuable enough 
legacy; but bis advice, especially 
when it is a mere recommendation 
to £ght, is a small boon to his suc- 
cessors. Yet it is worth while to 
note that whether the docurafent 
"which passes under the name of 
Peter's will is genuine or forged, 
it has certainly been in existence 
for much more than a century, and 
during the whole of that century 
Russia has pursued exactly the 
policy laid down in it. We quote 
sections 8 to 12 from the will. 
No explanation, whether by em- 
peror or statesman, can lead us 
to doubt that Russian ambition is 
in the direction suggested by the 
writer of it, whoever he may have 

•• 8. We must keep steadily extend- 
ing our frontiers - northward along the 
Baltic, and southward along tlie shores 
of the Black Sea. 

"0. We must progress as much as 
X>08sible in the direction of Constanti- 
nople and India. He who can once 
get possession of these places is the 
real ruler of the world. With this 
view we must provoke constant quar- 
rels, at one time with Turkey and at 
another with Persia. We must estab- 
lish wharfs and docks in the Euxine, 
and by degrees make ourselves masters 
of that sea as well as of the Baltic, 
which is a doubly important element 
in the success of our plan. We must 
hasten the downfall of Persia, push on 
into the Persian Gulf; if possible re- 
establish the ancient 'commercial inter- 
course with the Levant through Syria, 
and force our way into the Indies, 
which are the storehouses of the 
world. Once there, we can dispense 
with English gold. 

" 10. Moreover, we must take pains 
to establish and maintain an intimate 
union with Austria, apparently counte- 
nancing her schemes for future ag- 
grandizement in Germany, and all the 
while secretly rousing the jealousy of 
the minor states agamst her. In this 
way we must bring it to pass that one 
or the other party shall seek aid from 
Bussia ; and thus we shall exercise a 
8ort of protectorate over the country, 

which will pave the way for future 

'• 11. We must make the House of 
Austria interested in the expuUion of 
the Turks from Europe, and we must 
neutralize its jealousy at tlie capture of 
Constantinople, either by pre-occupying 
it with a war with the old European 
States, or by allowing it a share of the 
spoil, which we can laterwards resume 
at our leisure. 

•* 12. We must collect round our 
House, as round a centre, all the de- 
tached sections of Greeks, which are 
scattered abroad in Hungary, Turkey, 
and South Poland. We must make 
tJiem look to us for support, and then, 
by establiMng heforelumd a sort of 
ecclesiastical supremacy, we shall pave 
the way for universal supremacy.' 

» } 

Will any unprejudiced reader say 
that Bussia has not systematically 
and assiduously pursued this policy 
for a century, or that she is not 
actively pursuing it at the present 
moment ? 

Take her extension of territory 
towards India. Passing over the 
earlier history of her eastern con- 
quests, let us for brevity's sake 
mention only the events which 
have occurred during the reign of 
the present Emperor, whom his 
admirers describe as the most 
peaceable of monarchs, and the 
most liberal of despots. But let 
him be judged by his deeds, not 
by his words. 

Much has recently been added to 
our information regarding the his- 
tory of Russian conquest in Central 
Asia. But we have not forgotten 
the history of her intrigues in 
Afghanistan under previous Em- 
perors. Now that Russia is step 
by step, and contrary to her pledged 
word, working her way towards 
the Afghan frontier, are we to be 
blinded by assurances that no de- 
signs are entertained at St. Peters- 
burgh of extending the empire 
eastwards ? 

Captain Burnaby, one of the 
most recent visitors to Turkestan^ 


Servia, and the Slavs. 


informs ns that he met in Tash- 
kend a merchant, of Khiva, who 
informed him that the whole Ras- 
sian population of the country 
looked on a war with England as 
inevitable, and that India was re- 
garded as a mine of wealth from 
which they would soon be able to 
replenish their empty purses. 
"*How will they march to India?' 
I inquired. * There are high moun- 
tains that block the way, and besides, 
if they were to come, how do you 
know that we should let them get 
back again?' * There are many 
roads,' he answered. * Merchants go 
from Bokhara to Cabnl in sixteen 
days in the summer months ; then 
there is the road through Merve and 
Herat, which was stopped by the 
Turkomans, but which the Rus- 
sians are now going to open, and 
at the same time to build a fort at 
Merve. You have fine soldiers in 
India, but we are told the natives 
do not like you, and wDl look on 
the Russians as deliverers.* ' How 
do you like the Russians?' I in- 
quired. * Pretty well ; they buy 
my goods when I am at Tashkend, 
and leave alone small people like 
myself. If I were rich it would 
be another matter, but then I 
could bribe. Money will go a 
long way with the colonels, and 
even the generals do not always 
keep their palms! shut.' *Were 
you in Elhiva when the countiy 
was taken ? ' I asked. ' No, I 
was then at Tashkend, and we 
thought that the Russians never 
would get there. It was fearful,' 
he added ; ' so much bloodshed, 
so many friends killed, women and 
children too ; such cruelties. War 
is a dreadful thing.' "♦ 

Perhaps Mr. Eugene Schuyler, 
who, as American Consul-General 
at Constantinople, had peculiar 
privileges of access to information 

granted him during his travels in 
Tnrkistan by Russian officials, is 
the very best authority on the Rus- 
sian advance towards India. Much 
of his interesting work indeed is, 
in fact, based on Russian official 
documents; while his knowledge 
of the Russian language enabled 
him to gather from personal inter- 
course with people of all classes, 
most important testimony in favour 
of the views of Russian policy 
which we have expressed. Captain 
Bumaby, in defiance of the Rus- 
sian order by which Englishmen^ 
are prohibited from entering the 
conquered districts, made a hurried 
*' Ride to Eliiva," which was sud- 
denly terminated by a telegraphic 
despatch from the English Com- 
mander-in-Chief, sent no doubt on 
the application of the Russian am- 
bassador. This of itself is suspi- 
cious. Mr. Schuyler, on the con- 
trary, being the consul of an allied 
Power, was permitted to travel and 
investigate in Tnrkistan for eight 
months, and assisted in his inves- 

Our limited space does not per- 
mit us to give more than the veriest 
outline of Mr. Schuyler's opinions. 
Let it not be forgotten tnat they 
are those of a man inclined in 
favour of Russia and against Eng- 
land ; though one who, on the whole, 
endeavours to write impartially. 

First — Lust for extension of 
territory; carried out to annexation 
of the Khanates, by creating in- 
trigues and dissensions among 
the frontier tribes, and thereafter 
reducing them to subjection, has 
been Russia's Eastern policy. 

Secondly — Her extended terri- 
tory has been obtained at great 
pecuniary loss, and will not for 
many years to come, if ever, bo 
anything other than a '* drain on 
the Imperial exchequer." 

* *' A Kide to Kbiva : Travels and Adventures In Central Asia," by Fred. Bumaby, p. 


Servia, aiid the Slavs. 


On this second point, Mr. 
Schoyler naively remarks that had 
Russia known fifteen years ago as 
xnnch about the poverty of the 
countries of central Asia, there can 
hardly be a doubt that there would 
have been no movement in that 
direction. Others — Mr. Gladstone, 
for example, in his article on l.<us- 
sian policy in Turkistan (Contem- 
porary Review for November, p. 881) 
— think " that Providence has com- 
mitted in that country a civilizing 
mission to her (Russia's) care." 
Mr. Bright thinks that ''there is 
not an intelligent man in Russia 
or Europe, who does not know that 
Lv^aocesaions of territory to the Ras- 
V^V«ian empire during the last fifty 
years have greatly weakened that 
Empire.'* {Speech at Birmingham, 
Deosmber 4th, 1876.) Does it not 
occur to these gentlemen, that a 
country which spends half a century 
in deliberate self-impoverishment, 
must be doing so for some undis- 
dosed aim in fiie future ? Reading 
the prospects of the future by the 
history of the past, is the proba- 
bility not that Russia is incurring 
a present loss of money and blood 
for a future political gain ? 

Thirdly— With regard to the 
ciyilizing mission of Russian arms, 
we beg to inquire whether civiliza- 
tion, is spread by means like the 
following ? — 

In the contest with the Yomud 
Turkomans, General Kaufiman, 
the Russian commander, issued an 
order in these terms : "If your ex- 
cellency sees that the Yomuds are 
not^daoltpying themselves with 
getting together money,* but are 
assembling together for the purpose 
of opposing our troops, or perhaps 
even for leaving the country, I 
order you immediately to move on 
the settlements of the Yomuds, 
and to give over the settlements of 
the Yomuds, and their families, 

to complete destructioki, and their 
herds and property to confisca- 

An eye-witness describes in 
graphic terms the result. " We 
burned," ho says, "as we had done 
before, grain, houses, and ever thing 
which we met ; and the cavalry, 
which was in ■ advance, cut down 
every person — man, woman or 
child. Many of the men had gone, 
although a few of them got up and 
fired at us. They were generally 
women and children whom we met. 
I saw much cruelty. The infantry 
came at a run behind, running 
fully eighteen miles, and continued 
the work of murder." 

So much for the policy of Russia 
against England, on the side of 
India. Is it not exactly in pursuance 
of this repudiated will of Peter's ? 

But extension of frontier to- 
wards Constantinople is another 
aim prescribed in this remarkable 
document ; and it is to be effected 
by provoking constant quarrels 
inter alia with Turkey. 

Here again recent history amply 
proves the persistency with which 
Russia has carried out the policy laid 
down for her guidance. But it is a 
history fresh in the minds of our 
readers, and therefore it is not 
needful to recount it. We shall 
rather advert to one or two of the 
less known facts regarding the 
diplomacy of Russia of late years. 

It is considerably less than half 
a century since the Peace of 
Adrianople was signed, by which 
Russia detached Servia from Ot- 
toman rule. In the course of the 
diplomaticintrigues which preceded 
the signature of the treaty there 
were negotiations between Russia 
and France, Metternich had pro- 
posed a partition in which Franco 
was to have no share or equivalent. 

" Thereupon," says Baron Stock- 
mar, than whom no man of his 

* A war indemnity to the fonount of jC41,000 had b«en demanded from the Yomndtk 


Servia^ and the Slavs. 


day was better informed of the 
diplomatic secrets of the time, 
"Russia addressed herself to 
France, and asked for her opinion. 
* I do not wish the fall of Turkey,' 
said the Emperor Nicholas, *bat 
it is not to be averted ; if France 
and Russia where to come to an 
undei'stauding, they would be 
masters of the situation.'* 

" Prince Poh'gnac advised that 
the Russian proposition should be 
entertained. His leading ideas 
were the following : In every com- 
bination connected with the fall of 
the Ottoman Empire, the one 
object that must be kept in view 
is the breaking up of England's 
dominion over the sea." 

France was to obtain Belgium 
in the proposed arrangement, 
"which would strengthen her 
maritime power, which the conti- 
nent could well afford to see 
strengthened, since Franco would 
place herself at the head of an 
alliance for the freedom of the sea. 

" Russia, according to Polignac's 
great memoir, was to be driven in 
the direction of Asia. He handed 
over to her Moldavia and Wallachia, 
Armenia, and as much of Anatolia 
as she wished to take. She was to 
cut a passage for herself to India, 
and take up a maritime position 
in the Mediterranean against 

" Austria should receive Bosnia 
and Servia in order to strengthen 
her maritime position. 

** The rest of European Turkey 
was to constitute a Chnstian king- 
dom under the King of the Nether- 
lands, by means of which an im- 
portant maritime power would bo 
created to counter balauce that of 

** The North of Europe was like- 
wise to be reorganized for the 

purpose of increasing its maritime 
strength." t 

The peace between Russia and 
Turkey had been signed before 
this proposal could be laid before 
the Emperor Nicholas. It may be 
said that Russia is not responsible 
for the ambitious designs of France. 
But it must not be forgotten that 
the proposal was drawn up in reply 
to Russia's offer of an alliance to 
France ; and that it most distinctly 
indicates the French estimate of 
the designs of Nicholas, otherwise 
it would never have been made. 

The renewed attack of Russia on 
Turkey which led to the Crimean 
war, we need not describe. It was 
merely a further attempt on the 
part of Russia to carry out its am- 
bition for extension to the south. 

Nearly twenty years after, in 
1871, having somewhat recovered 
her shattered strength, Russia is 
found taking advantaofe of the 
earliest opportunity of repudiating 
the treaty imposed on her as the 
result of that war. 

And now her intrigues on her 
southern frontier, and her open 
show of sympathy with, and con- 
tributions of aid in men, material, 
and money to the Slavs on her 
borders, have succeeded in raising 
civil war in the Turkish empire. 
Yet, forsooth, she must intervene 
to bring about peace, and that by 
a military occupation of the very 
provinces she is known to covet ! 
If such a thing is permitted by 
Europe it will be most strange ! 
More than most strange if it is 
submitted to by England ! 

We could easily add much to 
this description of Russian policy 
towards the Servians and the 
Slavs of the south. In the con- 
gress of European Powers which 
is assembled at Constantinople 

* The same argaments were employed in our days by the same Emperor, in his celebiftted 
iDten-iew with Sir Hamilton Seymour, only in another direction, 
f *' Memoirs of Baron Stockmar," toL i, pp. 136, et seq. 


Servia, and the Slavs. 


the complaints of the rayahs of 
Tarkey proper mast form the 
main point of discassion, and we 
believe Enrope is falljr aJive to 
the necessity of ameliorating their 
condition. In oar opinion these 
rayahs are deserving of every 
sympathy, and we think the Tnrks 
will make eveiy concession in their 
favour that England may demand ; 
nay, more, that any guarantees 
not wholly destructive, of Osmanli 
role, and not humiliating to the 
Porte, will ultimately be given. 
But the Slavs seek no more 
than that their wrongs shall be 
effectually remedied. The Slavs 
in Turkey proper, at all events, 
seek no more. For Servia and 
Montenegro we have no compas- 
sion ; and we hope that the 
penalty of their unprovoked in- 
trigues and aggressions on Turkey 
will be meted out to them either 
by the Congress or by the sword. 

England should remejnber that 
the war has not been a war of re- 
ligion ; and if it were, no right of 
intervention would lie with Russia. 
No attempt to claim a religions or 
national protectorate over the 
Slavs of Turkey should be per- 
mitted to Russia. Her religion, 
as exemplified by her practice of 
its principles, is no less bloody and 
brutal than Islam. 

When we hear people arguing 
day by day that Mahommedanism 
is the religion of the sword, and 
should be suppressed or driven out 
of Europe because of this bloody 
tenet, we are apt to forget that 
many centuries have not elapsed 
since Christianity ceased to be a 
religion imposed by the sword in 
even our own enlightened land ; 
and that sucb things as the Mas- 
sacre of St. Bartholomew still 
stain its annals. The progress of en- 
lightened thought alone has brought 
about a happy change. May it not 
possibly in course of time effect 
the same change for Islam ? God 

forbid that we should have any 
more Holy Wars on either part. 

The proposal to establish au- 
tonomous provinces in Bosnia and 
Bulgaria appears to us to be un- 
workable. The Porte's own pro- 
posal to adopt a general system of 
reform extending over the whole 
empire is infinitely superior. The 
former would be a step towards 
disintegrating the empire — the 
latter towards consolidating it. 
Tarkey has availed itself of English 
assistance on many matters of 
internal administration. Would 
she not appoint an English com- 
missioner to superintend the ad- 
ministration of justice and the col- 
lection of taxes in each province ? 
Such an arrangement would pro- 
bably be regarded by even Russia 
as a sufficient guarantee against 
farther oppression of the rayahs, 
and it would secare the integrity 
of Ottoman territory. 

The main grievances under which 
the Turkish rayah suffers are the 
extortion of the Government and 
the tithe-farmers, the continuance 
of an antiquated system of paying 
land-rent and other feudal services 
in kind ; liability to forced labour, 
and maladministration of justice. 
He has to submit to other social 
disabilities ; but were the above 
radical defects of Turkish rule 
remedied, differences of caste would 
soon disappear. 

We do not hesitate to affirm 
that the Porte would benefit more 
than the rayahs by a measure con- 
verting all payments in kind into a 
money payment, fixing the value 
of land by a valuation roll, and 
abolishing the farming of tithes. 
The taxes are heavy, and consider- 
ing the enormous debt of Turkey, 
they must remain heavy for many 
years. But it is not the payment of 
taxes of which the rayah complains, 
it is the mode in which they are 
levied, which subjects him to every 
species of rapacity and oppression. 


Servia, and the Slavs. 


The tithe, for example, is flEunned 
to the highest bidder. Being col- 
lected in kind, it varies every year. 
The tithe-farmer, having made 
his contract with the Gt)vemment, 
proceeds to the lands to assess the 
amount to be paid by an inspection 
of the crop, and the poor rayah is 
bound to maintain him and his 
attendants during his pleasure. In 
this way he lives at ease a goodly 
portion of the year. He fixes the 
tithe very much at his pleasure 
— generally at whatever sum he 
thinks he can extort. There is a 
law against such procedure; but 
the rayah finds it inoperative in 
his favour, though it is always 
available against him. 

And he pays his rent under con- 
ditions very similar. In Bosnia, 
according to Mr. MacColl, the usual 
terms are these : A fourth part of 
the various produce obtained from 
the ground ; one animal yearly, as 
well as a certain quantity of butter 
and cheese; to carry a certain 
number of loads of wood, and 
materials for any house which 
the landlord may chance to be 
building ; to work for the land- 
lord gratuitously whenever he may 
require it ; to make a plantation of 
tobacco, and cultivate it until it is 
* lodged in the master's house ; to 
plough and sow sp many acres of 
land, and look after the crop till it 

is safely lodged in the landlord's 
barn, and all this gratuitously. 
Such an arrangement opens the 
door to every oppression. 

There are many more taxes levied 
from the rayah, all of them under 
arrangements through which he is 
incessantly plundered. In fact, 
almost everything he has or does 
has a tax imposed on it. 

The simple expedient of assess- 
ing these taxes on an ascertained 
valuation roll, and of fixing the 
rayah 's rent in an open market 
at a certain sum of money, would 
remedy most of the evils of his 
position. It would do more : it 
would go a g^eat way to secure for 
him that justice which he cannot 
obtain in the law courts. While 
the complicated system of assess- 
ing taxes remains there is no diffi- 
culty in obstructing the course of 
justice to the rayah ; but if he were 
called upon to pay a fixed sum in 
money yearly, to produce the money 
would answer all demands. 

Yet we think that justice wHl 
not be administered in Turkey till 
an independent European element 
is introduced either into the courts, 
or to superintend the judicial 
system generally. Equity is un- 
known in Turkey, even between 
Mussulman and Mussulman. It is 
unheard of between Turk and 


Literary Notices. 



Ooethe: Ausgeudhlte Prosa. 
Edited, with notes, by J. M. Hart 
Londou: Sampson Low & Co. — 
Mr. Forater, in his recent inaugural 
address as Lord Bectorat Aberdeen, 
laid great stress on the importance 
of a knowledge of French and 
Oerman. As an introduction to 
the language and literature of Ger- 
many, this volume oC selections 
from Goethe's prose writings ma.y 
be found of much service. It is 
one of a series of German classics 
edited with great care and ability. 
The pieces are well chosen, and ac- 
companied by notes containing 
biographical, historical, and other 
information, with occasional ex- 
planation of words and phrases. It 
18 to the illustration of the subject- 
matter, rather than the inter- 
pretation of the language, that the 
editor confines himself, recounting 
the circumstances under which the 
works were written that are the 
sources of the extracts selected, 
describing their general character, 
and explaining all the allusions. He 
also briefly indicates the nature of 
the omitted portions of the original 
works which come between the 
selected pieces, and thus renders 
them better understood. 

It would be difficult, if not im- 
possible, to name any other German 
writer so well deserving of study as 
Goethe, one of the chief creators 
of modern German literature, and 
allowed on all hands to be its 
greatest ornament. There are few 
writers in any literature to compare 
with him for originality and depth 

of thought, fertility and variety of 
production, creative power of 
imagination, keenness of intellect, 
and profound knowledge of human 
nature. In all the high qualities 
of genius he takes no mean rank 
among such writers as Homer and 
Sophocles, Dante, Shakspeare, and 
Spenser. Mr. Carlyle thus de- 
scribes him : — 

" As a writer, his resources have 
been accumulated from nearly all 
the provinces of human intellect 
and activity ; and be has trained 
himself to use tliese complicated 
instruments with a light expertness 
which we might have admired in 
the professor of a solitary depart- 
ment. Freedom and grace, and 
smiling earnestness, are the charac- 
teristics of his works ; the matter 
of them fldws along in chaste 
abundance, in the softest com^ 
biuaiion ; and their style is referred 
to by native critics as the highest 
specimen of the German tongue." 

Mr. Hart has shown discretion and 
good taste in the selection of extracts 
which are at once models of style, 
and highly characteristic of the 
writer, who may be considered the 
best representative of modern Ger- 
man literature. He is quite right 
in pointing out the deficiency of 
suitable specimens of German 
prose in ordinary reading books, 
which give undue prominence to 
poetry and the drama, leaving the 
student unprepared for the language 
of philosophy, criticism, and every- 
day life. He is also perfectly just 
in his condemnation ol ^iL\.TtiRX<& 


Literary Notieei. 


too short to contain more than a 
small fragment of a subject, 
and 80 unconnected as neither to 
interest nor instruct the reader. 
The pieces he has chosen are all of 
considerable length, and complete 
in themselves, well adapted — 
especially with the aid of the editor's 
annotations«-to serve as specimens 
both of the works from which they 
are taken, and the general literary 
characteristics of the author, with 
whom every student of Gherman 
bught to be intimately acquainted. 
The first extract is from the 
Dichtung und Warheit, giving an 
account of Goethe's first session at 
Leipsic, which, though written forty 
years afterwards, is remarkable for 
the vivid freshness of itd colouring, 
as well as the soundness of its views 
on education. The other extract 
from the same autobiographical 
work, is the charmiug idyl of Seseti' 
heim, resembling in its characters 
Ooldsmith's immortal Vicar of 
Wakefield, to which it is no un- 
worthy pendant. Twenty pages 
are devoted to a portion of the 
Sorrowt of Werther, While suf- 
ficiently representing the general 
character of that work, which pro- 
duced so great and wide-spread a 
sensation, it contains little of an 
objectionable tendency, though its 
tone cannot be considered healthy. ' 
It is followed by a letter from 
Switzerland, written during his 
journey there in the autumn of 
1779, and full of graphic description. 
Then comes a long extract from the 
Italienische EeUe, containing a 
delightful account of what Goethe 
saw and did in Borne, >faple8, 
and Sicily — his eager longing to 
go there, his ecstacy on arriving, 
his enthusiastic ardour in going to 
see and hear everything of in- 
terest, his careful exactness in ob- 
serving, his just reflections, his 
literary studies, and his ai*tistic 
pursuits. The last selections, oc- 
cupying forty pages, are from 

Wilhelm MeUUr^i Lehrjdkre^ and 
give the g;i8t of the celebrated 
criticism on Hamlet^ which is con- 
sidered the gem of that remarkable 

Thus the reader has an oppor- 
tunity of studying Gt>ethe's suc- 
cessive phases of thought and 
expression at the leading epochs in 
his literary career, while at the 
same time acquiring a familiarity 
with the best German prose. If the 
other volumes of Mr* Hart's series 
are at all equal to this in value of 
material and excellence of editor- 
ship, it ought to meet with general 

The Poetical Works of Ebenezer 
Ellion. Edited by his son, Edwin 
Elliott. A new and revised edi- 
tion. 2 vols. London : H. S. King 
A Co. — It is now upwards of forty 
years since the first collected 
edition of Ebenezer Elliott s poems 
appeared, and met with favourable 
notice. That was a time of great 
political excitement. The Roman 
Catholic Emancipation Act and 
the first Reform Bill had just 
passed, after a season of violent 
agitation, which was accompanied 
by incendiary riots, and even 
threatened the stability of the con- 
stitution. Great discontent still 
prevailed among the working 
classes, with whom Elliott deeplv 
sympathized, having sprung from 
their ranks, and been prevented by 
the necessities of a numerous family 
from rising much above them. 
The chief grievance of which he 
had to complain — though by no 
means the only one — was the 
existence of the Com Laws, and it 
was his telling verses in opposition 
to these laws that gained him 
some celebrity as the " Corn-Law 

There can be little doubt that the 
vehemence with which he denounced 


Literary Notices. 


the bread tax, and attacked those 
who upheld it, and the vivid force 
with which he depicted its per- 
nicious influence on the condition 
of the poorer classes, contributed 
in some degree to its subsequent 
abolition, and so far did good. As 
little can it be doubted that the 
good was not without evil effect. 
His fierce and indiscriminate in- 
yectives against the upper classes 
generally, could not but tend to 
set class against class, and mislead 
the more numerous class to ascribe 
to their superiors all the disad- 
vantages under which they laboured, 
some being i*eally the result of cir- 

cumstanpes beyond control, and 
others attributable to themselves 
and capable of amendment if they 

Scarcely less pernicious was the 
influence of this continued warfare 
upon himself. It warped his in- 
tellect, and soured his temper, 
made him one-sided in his views, 
narrow in his sympathies, moody 
in his disposition, and unjust in 
judgment, if not malignant in 
heart. He seems to have been 
himself in some degree aware of 
this, if we may judge from the 
following lines : — 

'* O that my poesy were like the child 
That gathers daisies from the lap of May, 
With prattle sweeter tlian the blooming wild ! 
It then might teach poor Wisdom to he gay 
As flowers, and birds, and rivers, all at play, 
And winds, that make the voiceless oloud:} of morn 
Harmooioiis. But distemper'd, if not mad, 
I feed on Nature's bane, and meRS with scorn, 
I would not, could not if I would, b3 glad. 
But, like shade-loving plants, am hoppiest snd. 
My heart, once soft as woman's tear, is ^arl'd 
With gloating on the ills I cannot care." 

The bitterness of his partisan- 

Aip reaches a pitch of absurdity 

in his description of a snake : — 

" Coloured like the stone, 
With cmel and atrocioas Tory eye." 

Scarcely less absurd, and equally ill- 
natured, is his remark in a note on 
the polyanthus, of which he says ; 
— " It is the Jacobin of the vege- 
table kingdom; and when it is 
transplanted into the garden of the 
great, it loses all its worth." These 
chance ebullitions of petty spite, 
contemptible enough in themselves, 
show that Elliott would have suited 
Dr. Johnson, so far as being a good 
hater is concerned. 

We are inclined to think the 
^Com^Law Rhymes" and other 
political poems, might well have 
been omitted in the present edi- 
tion. Like election squibs, they 
are essentially of a fugitive char- 
acter, the offspring of a temporary 

state of things, and relating to 
persons now no more. Hence the 
interest with which they were read 
at tlie time can never be revived. 
They answered every purpose they 
were intended to serve, nor is it 
easy to see what advantage can be 
gained by reproducing them. The 
Corn Laws have been extinct for a 
generation, and are now forgotten. 
Why should not the strife con- 
nected with them be also forgotten ? 
The rich cannot now be charged 
with indifference to the welfare of 
the poor Who will be made better 
or happier by i*eading these furious 
tirades and vengeful impreca- 
tions, which are now altogether 
out of date, and out of place here ? 
They must either do harm, or pro- 
duce no effect at all. If Elliott's 
fame rests upon no better fonnda^ 
tion than these writings, its pros- 
pects arc far from encourogiug. It 


Literary Notice$. 


wonld have a better d^anoe of 
permanence bad tbe editor sub- 
jected bis father's works to ex- 
cision as well as revision. A single 
volnme would have contained all 
that was worth preserving. 

That Elliott was a genuine poet, 
and not a mere rhymer, is unde- 
niable. He had keen susceptibility, 
intense feeling, vivid imagination, 
great power of expression, and 
remarkjEible facility of versification. 
He was an ardent lover of nature, 
and a close observer of mankind, 
resembling, though not equalling, 
Wordsworth and Crabbe in his 
descriptions of scenery and charac- 
ter. Traces of other modem poets 
are discernible in his verse. He 
himself acknowledges having, in 

one poem, imitated Scott and Ten- 
nyson, adding, with charming frank- 
ness, '* I have done so because I 
oonld not help it." But he is far 
from being a mere slavish copyist 
or retailer of conventionalities. 
His poetry is the genuine utterance 
of his own nature, the truthful 
expression of his own feelings and 
conceptions in his own language. 
He shows originality and power 
both in his ideas and his mode of 
expressing them, sometimes carry- 
ing his power of forming compound 
words too far. With a full con- 
sciousness of his poetic faculty, he 
is also alive to his deficiencies, 
and acknowledges the superiority 
of others without grudging or in- 
sincerity. He says of himself : — 

" Self-taught and ill, my notes uncoutli I try, 
And ohant mv rugffed English ruggedly, 
To gloomy themes?' 

There is great truth in this de- 
scription. In his boyhood he had 
little opportunity and less inclina- 
tion for learning anything beyond 
the merest rudiments of know- 
ledge. It is pretty evident from 
the 'beneficial effect of modem 
poetry on his mind, that he would 
have derived still greater advantage 
from a classical training, whicb 
would have enabled him to go 
to the fountain-head of inspira- 
tion, and done something towards 
smoothing down the ruggedness 
both of his verse and his nature, 
without any sacrifice of native 

energy. It would be well if th© 
harsh sternness and gloom were 
relieved by more delicacy and re- 
finement, more sweetness and play- 
fulness. Elliott is too fond of deal- 
ing in horrors and miseries, which 
he renders still more repulsive by 
violent exaggeration. He also 
makes frequent use of the ma- 
chinery of dreams, which he de- 
scribes with a vivid distinctness, 
reminding one of Dante, as some 
of his character-painting does of 
Hogarth. The following sketch of 
a Sunday scene in a village may 
be taken as a specimen : — 

•* The bell strikes twelve. The ancient house of prayer 
Pours forth its congregated youth and age ; 
The rich, tlie poor, tbe gay, the sad, are there ; 
And some go thence, who, in their hearts presage 
That one week more will end their pilgrimage. 
First, in all haste, comes busy Bolus, croose 
As bantam cock, and neat as horse fresh polled. 
Then boys, all glad, as bottled wasps let loose. 
Clapping their hands because their toes are cold. 
Then the new Squire (more dreaded than the old) 
Raised from the milk-cart by his uncle's will-^ 
A Norfolk farmer he, who loved his joke, 

1877.] Literary Notice$. 161 

At tax-worn tradesmen aim'd, with practiaed skill ; 

For, scorning trade, he throve, while traders broke. 

And did not care a straw for Mister Coke. 

Next, lo ! the monarch of the village school. 

Slow Jedediah comes, not jet the last. 

Well can he bear the blame for stubborn fool ; 

Meekly he bows to yeomen, stomping past, 

While Bolns, yet in sight, seems teivelling fast. 

Thou, Jedediah, leamM wight, know'st well 

Why rush the younglings firom the porch with glee. 

Dear to thy heart is Nature's breezy fell ; 

Deeply the captives' woes are felt by thee, 

For thou art Nature's, Freedom's devotee ! 

Witness the moss that winter's rage defies, 

CuU'd yesterday, beside the lizard's home ; 

Witness thou lichen of the precipice, 

Beautiful neighbour of the torrent's foam, 

Plnck'd, where the desert often sees him roam ! — 

Next comes the train who better days have known, 

Condemn'd the taunts of paupers born to brook. 

With prostrate hearts, that mourn their hopes o'erthrown. 

And downcast eyes, that shun th' upbraiding look. 

Then comes his worsliip ; then his worship's cook ; 

And then, erect as trutii, comes Enoch Wray, 

Bareheaded still, his cheek still wet with tears. 

Pondering the solemn text, as best he may. 

Lo, close behind, the curate meek appears ! 

Kindly he greets the man of five-score years. 

The blind, the poor ! while purse-pride turns away, 

And whispering asks, half-wishful, half-a&aid. 

If Enoch has applied for parish pay ? " 

This comes from " The Village In his company the author ima- 

Patriarch," the longest and most gines himself on an eminence, to 
snccessfnl poem in the whole col- which is attached a legend ; thus- 
lection, the hero of which is Enoch narrated with powerful effect : — 
Wray, an aged blind stone-mason, 
referred to at the close of the 


Far to the left where streams disparted flow. 
Rude as his homo of granite, dark and cold. 
In ancient days, beneath the mountain's brow, 
Dwelt, with his sou, a widower poor and old. 
Two steeds he had, whose manes and forelocks bold 
Comb ne'er had touch'd ; and daily to the town 
They dragg'd the rock, from moorland quarries torn. 
Years roll'd away. The son, to manhood grown, 
Married his equal ; and a boy was bom. 
Dear to the grandsire's heart. But pride, and scorn, 
And avarice, &ng'd the mother's small grey eyes, 
That dully shone, like studs of tami8h'd lead. 
She poison'd soon her husband s mind with lies ; 
Soon nought remain'd to cheer the old man's shed, 
Save the sweet boy, that nightly shared his bed. 
And worse days were at hand. The son defied 
The father— seized his goods, his steeds, his cart : 
The old man saw, and, unresistinff, sigh'd : 
But when the child, unwilling to depart, 

152 Literary Notices. [Jan. 

Clung ^0 his knees, then spoke the old man s heart 
In gusliing tears. 'The floor/ he said, *is dry : 
Let thtf poor boy sleep with me this one night.' 

* Nay,' said the mother ; and she twitch'd awry 
Her rabid lip ; and dreadfal was the sight. 

When the dwarf d vixen dash'd, with fiendish spite, 

Her tiny fist into the old man's face ; 

While he, soft hearted siant, sobb'd and wept. 

Bat tlie child trinmph'd f Hooted to the place, 

Clasping the agM kneeo, his hold he kept. 

And once more in his grandsire's bosom slept 

And nightly still, and every night the boy 

Slept with his grandsire, on the rush-strewn floor, 

Till the old man forgot his wrongs, and joy 

Revisited the cottage of the moor. 

But a sad night was darkening round his door: 

The snow had melted silentlv away. 

And, at the gloaming, ceased the all-day rain ; 

iiat the child came not. Wherefore did he stay ? 

The old man rose, nor long look'd forth in vain ; 

Tlie stream was bellowing from the hills amain, 

And screams were mingl^i with its sullen roar : 

* The boy is in the bum,' said he, dismay 'd, 

And rush'd forth, wild with anguish. From the snore 

He plunged ; then, stagsfering. with both hands displayed. 

Caught, screaming, at the boy, who shriek'd for aid. 

And sank and raised his hands, and rose, and scream'd ! 

He leap'd ; he struck o'er eddy in ji^ foam ; he cast 

His wilder d glance o'er waves that yelp'd and gleam'd ; 

And wrestled with the stream, that grasp'd him fast, 

Like a bird struggling witli a serpent vast. 

Still, as he miss'd his aim, more faintly tried 

The boy to scream: Mill down the torrent went 

The lessening cries ; and soon, far off, they died ; 

While o er the waves, that still their boom forth sent. 

Descended, coffin-black, the firmament. 

Mom came : the boy retum'd not : noon was nigh ; 

And then the mother sought the hut in haste. 

There sat tlie wretched man, with glaring eye ; 

And in his arms tlie Ufeless chiM, embraced. 

Lay like a darkening snow-wreath on the waste. 

* God curse thee, dog ! what hast thou done ? ' she cried. 
And fiercely on his horrid eye-halls gazed : 

Nor hand, nor voice, nor dreadful eyes replied ; 
Still on the corpse he stared with head unraised ; 
But in his fix d eyes light unnatural blazed. 
For Mind had left them, to return no more. 
Man of the wither'd heart-strings ! is it well ? 
Long in the crave hath slept the maniac hoar ; 
But of the * lost lad* still the mountains tell. 
When siiriek the spirits of tlie hooded fell. 
And, many- voiced, comes down the foaming snow." 

Elliott did not excel in drama- tic about them. The shorter mis- 

tising history. His dran^atic poem, cellaneous poems are of varied 

** Both well," is a more series of merit, but many of them could 

wild rhapsodical speeches in over- have been well spared. Of an epic 

strained bombastic language, with poem, entitled '* Spirits and Men,'* 

little coherency and nothing drama- Elliott himself says he dedicates 


Literary Xotice$. 


it to Montgomery, as an evidence 
of his " presumption and despair.'* 
The editor does not benefit his 
father's reputation by republishing 
all his youthful and imperfect at- 
tempts. Even his best works are 
more powerful than pleasing, more 
ambitious in aim than perfect in 

A Vitit to German Schools. Notn 
of a professional tour^ with dis- 
cussions of the general principles 
and practice of Kindergarten and 
other schemes of Elementary Educa- 
tion. By Joseph Payne. London : 
Henry S. King and Co. — There 
are not many people so well versed 
or so deeply interested in educa- 
tion as the late Mr. Payne was. 
It was at once the business and the 
delight of his life. For many years 
he laboured as a faithful, able, and 
successful teacher. His whole 
heart and soul were in his work, 
which so completely absorbed all 
his attention that he cared little 
for what was not in some way con- 
nected with it. While actively en- 
gaged in the practice of teaching, 
he was continually studying the 
theory, and endeavouring, with the 
help of experience and observation, 
to ascertain the proper subjects and 
right methods of education. He 
was strongly of opinion that the 
art of teaching is imperfectly un- 
derstood for want of special study 
and training. To supply this de- 
ficiency he was appointed Professor 
of Education by the College of Pre- 
ceptors, and delivered lectures on 
the subject with illustrations. In 
the autumn of 1874 he made a per- 
sonal inspection of the chief Kin- 
dergarten and other elementary 
schools in Germany, and took 
notes, which are here published, 
with various remarks on the gene- 
ral subject of elementary education. 
Those who are interested in this 
€abjecty and desirous of becoming 

acquainted with the actual working 
6f the Kindergarten system, may 
find the present volume no bad 
substitute for a personal visit of 
their own. 

Mr. Payne went with a practical 
eye and ear, and a mind well 
skilled in all the essentials of teach- 
ing and school management. He 
knew exactly what to look for, 
and how to observe. His simple, 
straightforward accounts of what 
he saw and heard are all that could 
bo desired, as far as they go. It 
must be borne in mind, however, 
that he does not profess to furnish 
a complete report of any estab- 
lishment, much less of ' German 
elementary education in general. 
He simply gives a transcript of 
the impression produced on his 
mind by a single unexpected visit 
to some of the principal schools. 
Had he gone at a different time, 
he might have witnessed different 
proceedings, and received a different 
impression. He is careful to men- 
tion that deficiencies which he 
occasionally noticed may be sup- 
plied in other parts of the educa- 
tional course. No one could have 
taken more pains to get at the 
truth, or shown more impartiality 
and care in stating it. 

We do not set so high a value 
upon the critical discussions scat- 
tered here and there throughout 
the volume. Mr. Payne takes su- 
perfluous trouble to insist with 
repeated urgency on general prin- 
ciples which are admitted and 
?ractised by every good teacher, 
t was surely not necessary for 
him to tell us that '' whatever may 
be the matter in hand, whatever 
the method employed, the in- 
terest of the children in it is the 
essential condition of success. This 
interest fixes and concentrates their 
attention, calls out their active 
powers, and ensures their co-opera^ 
tion with the work of the teacher, 
and therefore educates them.*' 


Literary Notice$. 


No one, again, will dispnte that 
the teacher should avoid telling a 
child what he can find oat for him- 
self, bnt rather endeavour to oaU 
his faculties into active exercise. 
The practice of *' telling," which 
Mr. Payne so justlj condemns, is 
owing not to ignorance of the true 
principles of education so much as 
to mere laziness. It is easier at 
the moment, though not, perhaps, 
in the long run, for the teacher to 
do the pupil's work for him than 
put him in the waj of doing it for 
himself. Hence, the majority of 
teachers adopt this course, regard- 
less of the injury they do the pupil. 
The art of teaching is no recondite 
mystery which requires elaborate 
lectures and long training. The 
one great essential is self-denying, 
patient fidelity, which shirks no 
amount of trouble in the perform- 
ance of duty. This, combined with 
adequate knowledge and average 
intelligence, will ensure good teach- 
ing, while ^e best system of train- 
ing will be of no avail without 
these requisites. Mr. Payne him- 
self notices the difierent degrees 
of success attained by difierent 
teachers trained on the same sys- 
tem. The result must in every 
case depend far more upon the per- 
sonal qualifications of the teacher 
than the system upon which he has 
been trained. 

The sum and substance of Mr. 
Payne's educational creed may be 
found in this passage : — 

" Singing is an important feature of 
Frobel's system, and I do not think it 
is executed nearly as well as it might 
be by the little birds of the Kinder- 
gartens. Here, as is so generally the 
case in education, it is the teacher who 
is at fault ; the materials are all there, 
but the teacher fails to make the best 
use of them. The germs of art, how- 
ever feeble, are in the native constitu- 
tion of every little child, and though 
not always able to struggle of them- 
selves into the light, tiiey can be 
nursed and developed into power — 

that Is, tonie measure of power — ^by 
the teacher on the outside, if he is 
himself an artist in education. But all 
teachers are not artists in education ; 
and this, again, not because they are 
naturaUy incapable, but because they 
are not naturally 'informed' and in- 
spired with the pregnant conception 
that the teacher's function is genera- 
tive and even creative, and they there- 
fore believe themselves incapable 
witiiout actually being so. They are 
unconscious of the powers they really 
possess, and they are unconscious of 
their own powers because they do not 
appreciate those of the children they 
teach ; and lastly, they do not appre- 
ciate the children's powers, because 
they do not study carefully the nature 
of children. They should go to 
Frobel, and leam from him what 
children are, and what they can do 
when artistically handled. It is a very 
important consideration that the pro- 
duct of education, after all, depends 
mainly on the teacher. The number 
of stupid children is really very small, 
but the number of children who are 
left stupid — that is, of those whose 
powers are undeveloped — is very 
great ; and this number is mainly de- 
pendent on the teacher, with whom it 
rests very much to decide whether 
these powers shall be ignored, deve- 
loped, or stifled. The bad teacher is a 
mentieidey who deserves punishment 
quite as much as the unskilfnl medical 
practitioner who is called into court 
to answer for his delinquencies. Hence 
it happens, that young minds that 
might have been quickened into life, 
remain dead, buried, and forgotten." 

It is rather surprising that one 
who professes to have a delicate 
ear for music should apparently 
implv that every child may be 
taught to sing in tune. It is still 
more astonishing for so practised 
a teacher to say, *' The number 
of stupid children is really very 
toall," and attribute the existence 
of stupidity among children simply 
to tho want of good teaching. 
Surely, as in the case of the 
teacher, so in that of the pupil, 
natural endowment is far more in- 
fluential than artificial training. It 


Literary Notices. 


is to that rather than to edncation 
— valuable as it is — that all the 
achieyements of literature, philo- 
sophy, science, and art are attri- 

Mr. Payne it very severe on the 
revised code, which he describes 
as pursuing '* its disastrous course, 
ignoring or repudiating every prin- 
ciple of true education.*' He also 
singly condemns the pupil-teacher 
system, which is not allowed in 
Germany, and it is certainly open 
to objection. 

Soman Catholicism, Old and New, 
from the standpoint of the Infalli- 
hUiiy Doctrine. By J. Schulte, 
D.D., Ph.D. Belford Bros., To- 
ronto; Triibner and Co. — In these 
days, when Romanism seems to 
be gaining ground among us, and 
boasts that its converts are not 
the ignorant and thoughtless, but 
persons of rank, educatiou, and in- 
telligence, it is desirable that its 
principles should be carefully ex- 
amined and rightly estimated. 
Those who wish to study the ar- 
guments for and against them will 
do well to consult Dr. Schulte's 
pages. Having been till fifteen 
years ago a Koman Catholic, and 
for thirteen years a clergyman of 
the Church of England, he has a 
special claim to be heard with at* 
tention. Brought up in the Romish 
faith, trained in the Propaganda Col- 
lege at Rome, and in constant in- 
tercourse with Roman Catholics, 
he cannot but be correctly in- 
Ibrmed as to their views, and fa- 
miliar with the arguments by which 
they are accustomed to support 
tfaem. He says — no doubt truly 
enough — that Protestants are often 
betrayed into error with regard to 
the Church of Rome through im- 
perfect knowledge of its principles. 
From this danger he is exempt, 
which gives him an advantage 

over other Protestant controver- 

He is also well informed as to 
the other side of the question. It 
was not without careful study and 
protracted thought, ^* which lasted 
for some years," that he was in- 
duced to abandon the faith of his 
childhood, which had been the 
guide and stay of his life, and 
with it the friends to whom he was 
strongly attached, and for whom 
he siill feels a grateful regard. 

The fairness with which he con- 
ducts the argument is no less 
conspicuous than his knowledge. 
He does not suppress or misrepre- 
sent the views of his opponents, 
but gives full force to their ob- 
jections and replies. His own 
views are set forth clearly and 
advocated forcibly, but without 
disingenuous sophistry. Nothing 
can be better than the tone and 
temper in which he writes. There 
is not a trace of bitterness or vio- 
lence throughout the volume. Dr. 
Schulte uses no harsh words, in- 
dulges in no fierce invectives, pro- 
nounces no intolerant judgments. 
If his reasoning is not always con- 
clusive, and some of his assertions 
are without needful proof, his 
charity never fails. Such moder- 
ation and liberality as he displays are 
exceptional in controversy of any 
sort, and especially in religious con- 
troversy, which is usually anything 
but religious in spirit. Yet they can- 
not be ascribed to any want of zeal 
for truth on his part. He is tho- 
roughly in earnest, firmly persuaded 
that Romanism is a pernicious 
error, and very anxious to impress 
this conviction on the minds of 

In his opinion, " the very founda- 
tions of social and religious order 
are at stake," and this is the 
reason why he has felt compelled 
to write his present work. It was 
expected at the time of his seces- 
sion from the Church of Rome, 


Literary Notices. 


that he would at once publish his 
reasons for the important step he 
had taken ; bat well knowing the 
intemperate zeal into which new 
converts are apt to be betrayed, 
fitill suffering from the painful 
crisis through which he had passed, 
and having not yet got beyond the 
negative conclusion that Romanism 
is erroneous, he very wisely ab- 
stained from rushing into print. 
He has since had ample time to 
mature his convictions and recover 
from his wounded feelings, and now 
discusses the subject calmly, with 
all the additional authority of thir- 
teen years' active experience as a 
Protestant clergyman. 

Dr. Schulte*s work is in the 
shape of lectures, forming three 
divisions, entitled " The Theory of 
Infallibility in regard to the Church 
of Christ," " The Practical Work- 
ing of the Infallibility Doctrine in 
the Church of Rome," and " The 
Papacy and Infallibility.*' He is 
perfectly right in regarding the 
doctrine of infallibility, whether 
of Pope, councils, bishops, or 
Church, as the point on which 
everything else turns, and which 
consequently deserves chief con- 
sideration. There is force, if not 
novelty, in his demonstration that 
this doctrine, with all its apparent 
certainty as a ground of belief, is 
after all built ou the insecure foun- 
dation of fallible private judgment: 

"At the very outset of our discus- 
sion we ask our Roman Catholic 
brethren whether the doctrine of 
Church-infallibiU^ meets the object 
for which they so ardently contend, 
namely, the attainment of an infallible 
fiedth based altogether on divine autho- 
rity. Surely, they will agree with us 
that it is not self-evident; they will 
certainly not pretend that the mark of 
infallibility is so clearly stamped on 
the episcopate as to eUcit at once the 
faith of man, however ready he may 
be to fin^asp at any evidence that pro- 
mises to lead him to the attainment of 
truth. This doctrine, then, requires 
to be demonstrated by such prooffl and 

arguments as will convince the mind 
beyood tlie possibility of doubt. But 
these arguments are only the work of 
the human mind, which is liable to 
error and mistake, and. whilst they 
may convince some, will be rejected by 
others. Roman Catliolics profess to 
believe, in the revealed truths of God, 
on the infaUible authority of the 
Church ; and they believe in the 
latter because they are convinced of it 
by the arguments of fallible human 
reason. Who does not see that such 
a method of procedare cannot imbue 
the mind with infallible divine faith? 
Whilst they profess a belief in the 
infallible Church, they really believe 
in the correctness of the arguments by 
which they establish that infollibility, 
and nothing more. 

*' It appears to me that the rule of 
faith should suppose nothing prior on 
which it depends for its certiunty ; and 
if that something prior is human rea- 
son, what else can I call it but ration- 
alism ? And however strongly Roman 
Catholics may repudiate this imputa- 
tion, however vehemently they may 
clamour that their Church is the bul- 
wark of faith against rationalism ; 
still if we consider the basis of their 
rule of faith and the vast amount of 
philosophy that enters into the defence 
of their distinctive dogmas, we cannot 
conceal from ourselves the fact that 
the whole Roman system is tainted 
with rationalism." 

Both Romanist and Protestant 
exercise their own fallible judg- 
ment in matters of faith and duty. 
The only difference between them 
is, that the former does it 
once for all, and binds himself 
never to do it again; while the 
latter repeats the act all through 
life, whenever any religious doc- 
trine is presented to him. Of 
course the Romanist saves himself 
much trouble and anxiety by having 
only one decision to make instead 
of many, and derives much com- 
fort from the idea that he has an 
infallible guide, never troubling 
himself to think how he became 
possessed of this idea, or on what 
grounds the all-important assump- 


Literary Notices. 


tion depends. Dr. Scbnlte's work 
may be of great service to all, 
whether Romanists or Protestants, 
who wish to investigate this matter, 
and if it fails to produce firm con- 
viction, it will certainly give no 

Boudoir BdUads, By J. Ashbj- 
Sterry. Ghatto and Windus. — 
Thoagh the present volume is better 
fitted for a lady's boudoir than a 
gentleman's library, its contents can- 
not be properly called ballads. They 
are ratner vers de sociSte on young 
ladies, their whims and their ways, 
their charms and their dress. The 
writer, who Is quite a lady's man, 
lightly touches on these topics in a 
tone of playful bauter, which may win 
a gentle smile from the feminine 
fiuhioQables of youthful years. Full- 
grown men, and women who are no 
longer young, will hardly be able to 
enter into the rather mild jokes with 
the same zest. To them these " ballads" 
will seem, if not ^* silly nothings," 
— to nse the writer's phrase — at 
best but dainty trifles, and perhaps 
that is all the author would pretend 
them to be. As such, they are not 
without merit If not remarkable 
for brilliancy of wit, or raciness of 
humour, they are amusing in their 
way, and free from gross faults. 
There are not wanting happy bits 
here and there, with occasional 
touches of tender emotion and serious 
thought. As a favourable specimen 
of the work, we may quote the follow- 
ing sprightly sketch-* 



** No prudish professors from Qirton, 
Aithongh they're a couple of 

* blues.' 

Who koow more of .rowing 'tis 
Than strong-minded Beckerite 

* views.* 

Snch beauties seem made to be 
S J smiliog, bewitching, and bright. 

So daintily gloved and rosetted. 
Such Queens of the Dark and the 


** They prattle of ' smartness of feather/ 
Alia talk about ' winning the toss;' 
They chatter of * keeping together,' 

Of errors in ' steering across.' 
Each feels that her own crew 
And speaks of a ' glorious spurt ;' 
They know that to ' catch the begin- 
ning ' 
Is good for a rower — or flirt ! 


" When blue blades flash past on the 
Then anxious are blue-bedight 
In bosoms forget-me-nots sliiver, 

And violets nestle in curls ! 
They breathlessly wait for the crisis — 
As boats hurry fast to the mark — 
Will Cam throw a pallor on Isis ? 
Or tears turn light ribbons to dark P 


" Then pull for the pride of the river — 
For tiny cerulean glove. 
For droplets of turquoise that quiver 
In ears of the girl whom you love ; 
For the lazuli bracelet that presses 
The wrist of your own little pet. 
For glory of azure-twined tresses — 
Pull hard for the blonde and 
brunette ! 


" When oarsmen have ceased their 
When finished the muscular fight, 
Will pluck and Oxonian science 
Be conquered by * sweetness and 
Hcht ? • 
Though Fortune you fancy capricious, 
'Twill scarcely be cause for sur- 
If violet's perfume delicious 
Be vanquished by bright watchet 
eyes ! " 

Mr. Ashby-Sterry's versification is 
varied, free, and polished. He calls 
himself "Laureate of Frills," and 
says he raves about a damsel's dress. 
He not only talks with all the confi- 
dent ease of an expert abo^aX %vx^ 


Literary Notices. 


commonplace things as '' petticoats 
in tucks," "sheeny skirts," and 
*' diaphanous dresses,** hut ventures 
to touch upon the hidden mysteries 
of ** pantalettes,'* ** trouserettes," 
and *< stripen hose." In his Dedica- 
tion he hints a suspicion that perhaps 
the fair reader may go to sleep hefore 
reaching the end of the hook. We 
confess to having felt tired of so 
much simpering and prattling. One 
gets cloyed with sweets after a time. 
Toujours perdrix is neither palatable 
nor wholesome food. If Mr. Ashby- 
S terry does not change the theme, 
he will be in danger of getting 

The Midland Railway : its Rise and 
Progress. A Narrative of Modem 
Enteiyrise, By F. S. Williams. 
London : Strahan & Co. — It is not 
unnatural to suppose that the direc- 
tors, shareholders, and others con- 
nected with the Midland Railway 
may be glad to have a permanent 
record of the origin, conflicts, and 
victorious advance of that important 
undertaking. The general public, 
however, cannot reasonably be ex- 
pected to feel the same interest in 
Mr. Williams's narrative. Of this 
the author himself seems fully 
aware, as appears from the fact of 
his devoting half his volume, not to 
the railway, but the towns and 
country through which it passes. 
Why he should have pitched upon 
this particular railway as an instance 
of modem enterprise, it is not very 
easy to see. His whimsical expla- 
nation is, that he and the railway 
were bom at about the same time 
and place. We almost wonder he 
did not add the further remarkable 
coincidence that the present secre- 
tary's name is Williams. However, 
he has produced a large and hand- 
some volume, with an abundance of 
illustrations which are well executed, 
with one or two exceptions; particu- 

larly the miserable representation in 
the Appendix of the Midland Hotel 
at St. Pancras. 

The whole thing is too much of a 
book-making affair, and partakes 
more of commerce than literature, 
to which it scarcely belongs. Mr. 
Williams imitates Mr. James, the 
novelist, and makes use of the news- 
paper special reporter's artifices to 
heighten the effect, but does not dis- 
play the characteristics of a masterly 
historian. His materials are neither 
well selected nor sufficiently worked 
up to produce an unbroken homoge- 
neous narrative. He loses himself 
in petty details which have little or 
no connection vrith the proper sub- 
ject of his book, quotes speeches not 
worth preserving, and repeats so- 
called humorous sallies which may 
have been amusing at the time and 
place at which they were uttered, 
but to a reader unacquainted with 
the persons and circumstances con- 
cerned, appear anything but racy. 
Had the writer not aspired to pro- 
duce so large a work, he might have 
been more successful. 

The part of the volume of most 
interest for general readers is the 
description of the places traversed 
bv the line, the materials for which 
are gathered from well-known 
sources, and may be found in ordi- 
nary guide-books. In fact, Mr. 
Williams's work may be not inaptly 
described as a special correspon- 
dent's article on a large scale, fol- 
lowed by a guide-book, the whole 
being accompanied by numerous 

The Vatican and St. Jameses ; or, 
England independent of Rome, A 
Letter addressed to Right Hon. B. 
Disraeli^ M.P, By James Lord. 
A Ramble with the Cardinal ; or, 
Flowers of History from Wendover. 
Remarks on an article by Cardinal 
Manning in the Contemporary Re- 


Literary Notices* 


r*w, December^ 1875, entitled The 
Pope and Magna Charta. By James 
Lord. The Roman Fonliffe, Fopes, 
or Bishops of Mome^ and their times. 
With Notice of contemporary events 
connected with Unglish History, By 
James Lord. De Yitis, or Uistoric 
Beview office. London : 32, Charing 
Cross. — If Mr. Lord's publications 
are to be of any service in exposing 
and refuting Bomisb error, they 
mnst at least be read, which is not 
likely to come to pass, unless they 
are written in a very different 
manner from these. He forgets that 
life is short, and it is not every one 
who is blest with such a super- 
abundance of spare time as seems 
to hang so heavily on bis hands. 
It is sometimes found useful in the 
House of Commons, and at the 
bar, to speak against time — and 
no doubt Mr. Lord would excel in 
this accomplishment — but such an 
artifice can hardly answer in print. 
The reader's patience must soon 
lie exhausted, and his wearisome 
task come to an end. 

We cannot imagine it possible 
for any one to plod his weary way 
through the ^^ grandis et ver hasa 

roUiy'* which stands first among 
above works ; and even sup- 
posing he could perform this 
Herculean task, we defy him to 
give any distinct and coherent ac- 
count of what he has read, for the 
simple reason that there is no such 
thing as coherence or unity about 
it, any more than in a dictionary 
or a directory. It is impossible to 
see what the author's aim is, un- 
less it be to kill time, or attract 
attention to himself by dint of in- 
cessant loquacity. First we have 
an ** Introductory Memorandum," 
beginning with a long dedication of 
a volume ^* published at the time 
of the Papal aggression [1852] " 
— of course he means 1850 — fol- 
lowed by a page of his reasons for 
thus inscribing it ** to the British 
Nation," and winding up with a 

quotation from Count de Jarnac's 
speech at the Mansion House, a 
reference to the celebrated New 
Year's Day speech of the late 
Emperor of the French to the 
Austrian ambassador in 1859, and 
another to Lord Beaconsfield's 
inaugural address at Glasgow. 
What all this means, or what con- 
nection it has to the letter to which 
it is prefixed, we cannot see — still 
less can we pretend to enter upon 
any discussion of that chaotic pro- 
duction, in which the writer proses 
on with endless prolixity, countless 
digressions, and a boundless cloud 
of excessive wordiness. We will 
simply illustrate its general charac- 
ter by quoting a single sentence 
from the specimen number of the 
author's projected work on the 
Koman Pontiffs. 

"Erroneous impressions, resulting 
from alleged or imaginary facts, are 
oftentimes better removed by producing 
real facts — contrary thereto — than by 
any elaborate process of mere argu- 
ment alone — facts which of necessity 
disprove them or tend to do so— facts 
wliich remove the causes leading to 
such wrong ideas or impressions — 
show them to be inconsistent with 
reality and truth — prove the inferences 
attempted to be deduced from them, 
and the arguments based on tbcm, to 
be unsound, and the sources of them 

This reads more like a clause in 
an Act of Parliament or other legal 
document, or the freak of a cari- 
caturist, than a sentence from a 
work intended for plain folks who 
have any serious occupation. Fancy 
a whole volume made up of such 
sentences. What an amount of 
pluck must one have to think of 
wading through it from beginning 
to end, and what superhuman 
power of endurance really to ac- 
complish the feat. But supposing 
this done, it is only the beginning 
of evils, for there are to be ten or 
twelve of these unreadable vol- 


Literary Noticei. 

[Jm. 1877. 

The " Ramble with the Cardinal" 
is correctly described by its author 
as '* of so fragmentary, discursive, 
or rambling a character as scarcely 
to be worth — in the estimation of 
some at least — the pen and ink." 
It was certainly not worth printing 
or publishing. People are much 
to be pitied who cannot find some- 
thing better to do than reading it. 
We have here only a part of it, and 
that is more than enough ! 

The Home at Bethany : its Jbifs, 
its SorroicBf and its Divine Guest. 
By James Cnlross, A.M., D.D. 
London : The Religious Tract So- 
ciety. — Works devoted entirely to 
practical religion do not oft«n come 
under our critical pen ; but when 
one like this comes in our way, 
we are not slow to give it the 
meed of praise which is due to it. 

It is " beautiful exceedingly." 
Rich old Saxon English is written 
with rare tenderness and grace. 
Almost every page has some cu- 
riosafelicitas. The book is one to 
be read and read again. Rai*ely, 
indeed, do we meet with the wide 
learning which Dr. Culross com- 
bines with exquisite feeling, and 
the utmost chastity of taste. 

A single quotation will justify 
our verdict. We regret that we 
have no room for more. Dr. Cul- 
ross is speaking of Mary, the sister 
of Lazarus : — 

" She never thought of fame ; she 
had sounded no trumpet; she had 
simply expressed the love and worship 
of her heart toward Him who was about 
to be crowned ^Yith thorns and cruci- 
fied ; her deed (as a true golden deed) 
shall be held in everlasting reniem- 

branoe. Thus speaks the King of the 
Ages, the Ruler of History, with a ma- 
jesty whose very simpleness is sublime : 
' Verily I say unto you, wheresoever 
this gospel shall be preached through- 
out the whole world, this also that she 
hath done shull be spoken of for a 
memorial of her.' They are the words 
of Him who, ' being the holiest among 
the mighty, and the mightiest among 
the holy, hfied with his pierced hand 
empires off their hinges, and the stream 
of centuries out of its channel, and still 
governs Uie ages.* And he has ful- 
filled his promise, and given to this 
woman a renown which kings and 
heroes would have done anything to 
secure. The scoffs of unbelief, * from 
Julian to Voltaire,' die away into silence 
and are forgotten, together with the 
laughter which they provoked. Many 
a splendid deed, that die world praised 
and pronounced immortal, and graved 
on monumental brass, has passed into 
oblivion. Names that were famous a 
generation ago are strange in our ears 
to-day ; but tbis deed of a loving soul, 
like the widow's gift of two mites, from 
a heart so rich and a hand so poor, has 
received a fame coextensive with the 
world and time. The record of the 
deed is her memorial. It is not merely 
found in the New Testament, but is 
associated witli the story of the last 
sufferings of Jesus, sharing tha same 
everlasting fragrance; and wherever 
the gospel is preached, *tbis that 
she hath done' is told along with it. 
And not in vain. Being told, it gives 
birth to deeds like itself in other lives, 
and under other conditions — as a tree 
whose seed is in itself, yielding fruit 
after its kind." 

Dr. Gulross's book has the merit 
of being entirely void of cant. Yet 
it firmly and most persuasively 
advocates all the noble lessons that 
are taught in the history of the 
household at Bethany. It is a 
real gem of religious literature. 



FEBRUARY, 1877. 

[Vol. LXXXIX. 


The Sir Tbotnos Wjatt of whom 
we write id commonly known as 
" Sir Thomaa TTyatt, the Elder," to 
distinguish him from a son who 
inherited his name, and perished on 
the scaffold in 1554, in consequence 
of the part he took in promoting 
the claim of Lady Jane Grey to the 
ore WD of England. He is described 
by Bolton, in his Hypercritica^ as 
a " dangerous commotioner." 

The elder Wyatt, the subject of 
our sketch, was the son and heir of 
Sir Henry Wyatt, a favourite cour- 
tier botli of the Seventh and the 
Eighth Henries. The family was of 
Yorkshire origin, and Sir Thomas 
could trace his descent through six 
generations to the Wyatts of South- 
ange in that county. In a letter 
written to his son, then fifteen years 
old, he speaks of his father. Sir 
Henry, as a pattern for imitation : — 

"Consider well your good grond- 
&ther, what things there were in him, 

and his end. And they that knew him 
noted him thus. First, and chiefly, to 
have a great reverence for God, and 
fifood opinion of godly things. Next 
that there was no man more pitiful ; no 
man faster to his friend ; no man 
diligenter nor more circumspect, which 
thing both the kings his masters noted 
in him greatly. And if these things, and 
especially the Grace of God that the 
fear of God always kept with him, had 
not been, the chances of this trouble- 
some world that he was in had long 
ago overwhelmed him. This preserved 
him in prison from the hands of the 
tyrant^ that could find in his heart to 
see him racked ; from two years or 
more imprisonment in Scotland in 
irons and stocks ; from the danger of 
sudden changes and commotions divers 
— till that, well-beloved of many, hated 
of none, in his fair age, and reputation, 
godly and christianly he went to Him 
that loved him, for that he always had 
Him in reverence." 

Everything we can learn of Sir 
Henry Wyatt consists with this 
character of him, written by his 

Richard the Third. 



Sir Thomas Wyatt, the Elder. 


son, and written, be it remembered, 
not for publication, but merely for 
the purpose of inducing Wyatt 
** the younger " to follow in the foot- 
steps of his honourable old grand- 
father. Sir Henry was one of the 
Council which administered the 
affairs of the Government during 
the minority of Henry the Eighth.* 
He was made a Knight of the Bath on 
the occasion of Henry's coronation, 
and he held irany lucrative offices 
under "bluff King Hal." At the 
Battle of the Spurs be commanded 
a troop on the right wing of the 
Boyal Army, and was created a 
Knight-banneret on the spot in 
reward of bis valour. He after- 
wards sat as a judge both in 
Chancery and in the Star Chamber. 
Ho acted as Knight Marshal at the 
Field of the Cloth of Gold; and 
in the later years of his life was 
the King's '* Ewerer," then an office 
of no small dignity and importance. 
In liQS he purchased Allington, a 
property near Maidstone, in Kent, 
and he ever afterwards made Al- 
lington Castle his chief residence. 
In 1527 he entertained King Henry 
the Eighth there. 

At Allington, in 1503, his son 
Thomas was born. In the previous 
year Sir Henry had married Anne, 
daughter of John Skinner, Esq., 
of Keigate, Surrey. There were 
three children of the marriage, 
Thomas, Henry, and Margaret. 

The bo V hood of Thomas Wvatt 
was uneventful ; or, at all events, 
notliing is recorded of it. The 
same may be said of his college 
life, for we know little more of it 
than that he graduated at St. John's 
College, Cambrido;e, in 1520. B •- 
fore the close of that year he mar- 
ried Elizabeth, daughter of Thomas 
Bro jke. Lord Cobham. 

It is not known whether Wyatt 
entered upon the life of a courtier 
immediately after his marriaire. 
Some of his biographers state that he 
resumed his studies at the Uni- 

versity, and Anthony k Wood, in 
his Athen€B Oxonienses, cltdms him as 
an Oxonian, on the ground that he 
spent the early years of his married 
life as an Oxford student. But 
Anthony was notoriously unscru- 
pulous in claiming for his own 
University the honour of training 
men of letters, and he furnishes 
no satisfactory evidence that Wyatt 
ever resided at Oxford. Others 
say that Wyatt travelled for several 
years on the Continent before join- 
ing the Court, and there is much 
probability that he did travel to 
some extent. It was then, as it is 
now, the custom of men of family 
and position to make the grand 
tour on the completion of their 
University education. Wood men- 
tions this tour of Wyatt *s, and his 
statement has been frequently re- 
peated without contradiction. 

One thing is certain. At the 
time when Anne Boleyn was maid 
of honour to Catherine of Arragon, 
and when Henry was smitten with 
her beauty, Wyatt was not only a 
constant attendant at Court, but a 
prime favourite with the King. 
That he used the influence he then 
possessed with unselfishness is testi- 
fied by his whole career, for with 
the exception of tlio knighthood 
which was conferred upon him on 
Easter day, 18th March, 1536, and 
some gifts of lands of no great 
value, which were the rewards of 
important diplomatic services, he 
seems to have received neither 
dignity nor emolument, such as was 
then within the easy reach of royal 

At this period of his life Wyatt 
was universally acknowledjred to be 
the handsomest man of the time. 
Fortunately the genius of Holbein 
has preserved his features to us in 
a painting which is justly reckoned 
to be one of the masterpieces of that 
great painter. The portrait is the 
property of Lord Folkestone, and 
mcy be seen at Longford Castle. It 


Sir Thomas Wijatt, the Elder. 


18 of life size, and represents Wyatt 
and another p:ent]eman unknown. 
The picture fully justifies Surrey's 
description of Wyatt's form as one 
in which "force and beauty met." 
Those who have not an opportunity 
of seeing the original, will find an 
admirable engraving of the head 
and shoulders of Wyatt prefixed 
to the second volume of Dr. Nott's 
edition of the Poems of Surrey 
and Wyatt. The features are 
aquiline ; so decidedly as to give 
the brow almost a retreating ap- 
pearance, which is made still more 
noticeable by the long flowing 
beard, which maintains the line 
downwards. But the bead is 
really massive, the face is finely 
chiselled, the eye is full, and 
instini-t with intelligence and force. 
Lei and has described Wyatt 's face 
in these lines : — 

"Addidit haic faciem qua non for- 

mosior ulla, 
Lseta serenatsB subfixit lumina fronti. 
Lamina folgentes radiis imitantia 


and an ensjraving of Wyatt's 
head from Holbein is prefixed to 
his N<eni(e, 

Handsome as an Apollo, more 
brilliantly accomplished than any 
of his compeers, the leading lyric 
poet of bis time, a skilful musician, 
master of the chief European lan- 
guages (Camden calls him *' splen- 
dide doctus*^), frank, generous, 
noble, unsuspecting, profuse of his 
wealth, the daily intimate of King 
Henry, he could scarcely escape 
being involved in the gallantries of 
a court like that of England in the 
firoc half of the sixteenth century. 
But his gallantries never degene- 
rated into the unbri<lled lieentious- 
ne9s which disgraced his royal 
master and too many more men of 
the period. 

A great deal has been written 
about his relations with Anne 
Boleyn ; and it appears to be cer- 

tain that he was much attached to 
her before she was unfortunate 
enough to attract the fatal admi- 
ration of Henry. It has been as- 
serted that the intimacy between 
him and Anne was criminal, but the 
authority on which the statement is 
made is utterly insufficient. In the 
'first place, Anne was a near relative 
of Wyatt*s bosom friend, the Earl 
of Surrey, and all that we know of 
Wyatt's character forbids us to sup- 
pose that he would fail to respect 
the friendship he had for his brother 
poet. Again, it is well known that 
Anne had plighted her troth to 
Lord Percy, eldest son of the Earl 
of Northumberland, and that their 
marriage was only prevented by the 
intervention of the King through 
Wolsey. Cavendish gives a cir- 
cumstantial account of the inter- 
view between the great Cardinal 
and Lord Percy, and tells how Percy, 
after resisting as long as he dared, 
burst into tears, and promised obe- 
dience to Wolsey 's demand that his 
connection with her should cease. 
Further, there cannot be a doubt 
that Benry had no suspicion of any 
intrisi^ue between Wyatt and Anne, 
for when she went over to France, 
in 1532, after having been created 
Countess of Pembroke, our poet 
was apparently sent in her train, 
a thing which could not have hap- 
pened if the King had suspected 
any familiar intimacy between them. 
Yet it seems certain that Wyatt 
entertained towards Anne Boleyn 
one of those Platonic afiections 
which were characteristic of the 
time, and which not unfrequently 
ended in profligacy when the parties 
to them were cast in a less honour- 
able mould than he was. Probably 
enough they had met in France 
when Anne was attached to the 
Court, either of the Queen or of 
her Bister the Duchess d'Alen9on, 
and this acquaintance ripened in 
England. Several verses of Wyatt's 
can scarcely bear any other inter- 

11— ^ 


Sir Thomas Wyatt, the Eld^r. 


pretatioQ than this. To begin 
with, the following lines to "Anne," 
may or may not, have been ad- 
dressed to Anne Bolejn, but when 
they are read in connection with our 
subsequent quotations the proba- 
bility is that they were so ad- 
dressed : — 

*'What ^vord is that, that changeth 
Though it be tumM and made in 
It is mine Anna, God is wot. 
The only causer of my pain ; 
My love that meedeth with disdain. 
Yet is it loved, what will you more ? 
It is my salve, and eke my sore." 

The last of these lines is a riddle, 
which any one who cares may exer- 
cise his ingenuity in reading in its 
bearing upon the connection be- 
tween Wyatt and Anne Boleyn. 

One of the most curious and not 
the least beautiful of Wyatt's son- 
nets bears on the same subject, or 
seems to bear upon it. It is sup- 
posed to have been addressed to 
Anne immediately before her 
marriage with Henry was arranged, 
and therefore about the year 1532. 
The last two lines can bear no other 
interpretation than that Anne is 
the lady to whom the sonnet was 
addressed. What lady else was 
Gsesar*^ ? It is entitled : 

** Tlie Lover, despairing to attain unto 

his Lady*s grace, relinquisheth the 


'* Whoso list to huat ? I know where 

is a hind ! 

But as for me, alas ! I may no more, 

The vain travail had wearied me so 

sore ; 

I am of them tliat furthest come 

Yet may I by no means my wearied 
Draw from the deer ; but as she 

fleeth afore 
Fainting I follow : I leave off there- 
Since iu a net I seek to hold the 

Who list her hunt, I put him out of 
As well as I, may spend his time 

in vain! 
And graven with diamonds in let- 
ters plain, 
There is written her fair neck round 
about — 
Noli me tang ere; for Casar*s 

I am. 
And trild for to hold, though 1 
seem tame,** 

We shall quote another of Wyatt's 
sonnets which has been often 
founded on as proof of his attach- 
ment to Anne Boleyn. It is en- 
titled, "The Lover unhappy, bid- 
deth happy lovers rejoice in May, 
while he waileth that month to him 
most unlucky.'* 

" Ye that in love find luck and sweet 
And live in lust and joyful jollity. 
Arise for shame, do way your slug- 
gardy : 
Arise I say, do May some observance, 
Let me in bed lie dreaming in mis- 
chance ; 
Let me remember my mishaps 

Tliat me betide in May most com- 
As one whom love list little to 

Stephan said true, that my nativity 
Mischanced was with iSie ruler of 
He guessed (I prove) of that the 
In May my wealth, and eke my 
wits, I say. 
Have stoud so oft in such per- 
plexity : 
Joy, let me dream of your 

When it is remembered that 
Queen Anne Boleyn was arrested 
on the 1st, tried on the I2th, 
and executed on the 19th of May, 
this sonnet assumes a meaning 
which no other known event of 
Wyatt's life can give it. To us, 
however, the language appears too 
vague to be the basis of any his- 
torical inference. 


Sir Thomas Wyatt, the Elder. 


Wyatt continued to be a favourite 
at Court. In 1536 Henry bestowed 
upon him a signal mark of bis con- 
fidence by appointing him ambassa- 
dor to the Court of the Emperor 
Charles the Fifth. By this time 
Thomas Cromwell bad succeeded to 
the power of bis late master, 
Wolsey, and was pursuing a policy 
which led to ceaseless intrigues 
with France and the Empire. No 
more important post was at his dis- 
posal than that of Ambassador to 
Spain. The diplomacy of Pole had 
to be baffled ; and both the Empe- 
ror and the Pope had to be con- 
ciliated. Wyatt*s mission was 
successful. Pole was defeated, and 
was even dismissed from the Im- 
perial Court with disgrace. After 
two years spent in Spain, Wyatt 
returned to England, and once more 
took up his abode at Aliington. Of 
courtly life be was sick. In fact, 
be never cared for a diplomatic 
career, and he had reluctantly ac- 
cepted the Spanish ambassadorship 
as a duty to his king and his coun- 
try. The grateful retirement of 
Aliington had long been dearer to 
him than the polluted atmosphere 
of Henry's Court. Many of his 
dearest friends had already perished 
on the b'oek or on the gibbet, and 
Cromwell, his patron and protector, 
was tottering to his fall. Perhaps 
the following lines may be attributed 
to this period of his life. At what- 
ever time and in whatever circum- 
stances the poem was written, it is a 
noble one, and reads with a melodious 
fXTUce that was rare indeed in the 
first half of the sixteenth century. 

** On the Mean and Sure Estate. 

** Stand, whoso list, upon the slipper 
Of liigh estate ; and let me here 
And use my life in quietness each 
Unknown in Court tliat hath the 
wanton toys : 

In hidden place my time shall slowly 
And when my years be passed 
withouten noise 
Let me die old after the common 
trace ; 
For gripes of death doth he too 

hardly pass, 
That knowen is to all, but to him- 
self, alas, 
He dieth unknown, dased with 
dreadful face." 

Wyatt was not allowed much 
repose, for before the year 1539 
closed, he was called upon to under- 
take an embassy to France, to 
defeat a scheme which the Emperor 
and the French king were supposed 
to be promoting for an alliance 
against England. Bonner, bishop 
of London, and Dr. Haynes, the 
king's chaplain, were conjoined with 
him in the embassy, probably as 
much to act as spies on his actions 
as for any assistance they could 
give him. Both Henry and Crom- 
well had by this time become 
suspicious of everybody. 

The dreaded alliance never came 
off, and Wyatt after much entreaty, 
obtained his recall and resumed his 
residence in England. He had 
deserved well of his country, having 
been one of the ablest and shrewdest 
diplomatists of his day. But his 
very success excited jealousy of 
him. Cromwell, his patron, had 
fallen ; and Bonner took every 
opportunity to poison the king's 
mind against his quondam associate. 
At length Wyatt was committed to 
the Tower, on a charge of holding 
treasonable correspondence with the 
king's enemies, especially with 
Cardinal Pole, and of having 
slandered and vilified his roydi 
master during his ambassadorship 
in Spain. 

He was detained for some time 
before any proceedings were taken 
against him ; but at length the 
Privy Council required him to give 
an account of his conduct ^fk 


Sir Thomas Wyatt, the Elder. 


Ambassador to the Emperor, and 
he did so in a letter wbicli has heen 
preserved, and in which he fully 
vindicates himself from all the 
charges made against him. 

Thereafter he was brought to 
trial, and fortunately we have a 
record of the speech he made in 
self-defence. In those days persons 
•charged with treason were not 
allowed the assistance of counsel in 
defending themselves. Wyatt, how- 
ever, lost nothing by this barbarous 
pule. His " defence '* is little 
known, but it is a masterpiece of 
logical eloquence ; and we shall 
give a somewhat full analysis of it 
as a rare specimen of the oratory 
of the time. Ouly in the formal 
parts of it is it in the least degree 
prolix ; and it must be remembered 
that prolixity was chnracteristic of 
pleadings in the days of Wyatt. 
Yet even in these parts, the charge 
of prolixity can hardly be sub- 
stantiated against it. 

** My lords," he begins, " if it were 
here the law, as hath been in some 
0< mmonwealtlis, that in all accusations 
the defendant should have double the 
time to say and defend that tlie accusers 
have in making their accusemcnts ; and 
that the defendant might detain nnto 
him counsel, as in France, or where 
the civil law is used ; then might I well 
spare some of my leisure to move your 
lordships' hearts to be favourable unto 
me ; then might I by counsel help ray 
truth, which by mine own wit I am not 
able against such a prepared thing. 
But, inasmuch as ttiat time that your 
lordships will favourably give me with- 
out interruption, I must spend to in- 
struct without help of counsel their 
consciences Uiat must pronounce upon 
me : I beseech you only (at the reve- 
rence of God, whose place in judgment 
you occupy under the King's majesty, 
and whom you ought to have, where 
you are, before your eyes), that you be 
not both my judges and my accusers. 

that is, that you aggravate not my 

cause unto the quest, but that alone 

unto their requests or unto mine, which 

I suppose to be both ignorant of the law, 

ye interpret law sincerely. For I know 

right well what a small word may, of any 

of your mouths that sit in your place, 

to these men that seeketh light at your 

hands. This done, with your lordships* 

leaves, I shall convert my tale imto 

those men. 

« « -if « 

" Of tlie points that I am accused of, 
to my perceiving these be the two 
marks whereunto mine accusers direct 
all their shot of eloquence — A deed 
and a saying. 

" After this sort in effect is the deed 
alleged with so long words : ' Wyatt, 
in 80 great trust with the King's 
Majesty, that he made him his ambas- 
sador, and for whom his majesty hath 
done so much, bemg ambassador, hath 
had intelligence with the King's rebel 
and traitor, Pole.' 

** Touching the saying, amounteth to 
this much: That same Wyatt, being 
also ambassador, maliciously, .falsely, 
and traitorously said, that be feared 
that die King should be cast out of a 
carfs tail ; and that by God's blood, if 
he were so, he were well served ; and 
he would he were so." 

Wyatt then proceeds to deal with 
the first charge made against him, 
and shows triumphantly that the 
only communication be ever had 
with Cardinal Pole was through 
one Mason, who was sent to Pole 
with the concurrence of both 
Bonner and Hayues to open up 
communication with him for the 
purpose of ** undermining him, to 
see if he could suck out auything 
of him, that were worth the king's 

*'Doth Mason here accuse me," 
Wyatt asks. ** or confesseth that I sent 
him on a message ? What word gave 
I unto tliec. Mason ? What message ? 
I defy all familiarity and friendahip 


Sir Thomas Wyatt, the Elder. 


betwixt us, — say thy worst. My ac- 
cusers themselves are accused in this 
tale as well as I, if this be treason. 
Yea, and more : for, whereas I confess 
frankly, knowing both my conscience 
and the thing clear of treason; they 
belike mistrusting themselves, deny 
this. What mean they by denying of 
this : Minister interrogatories. Let 
them have such thirty-eight as were 
ministered unto me ; and their familiar 
friends examined in hold, and appear 
as well as I, and let us sec what milk 
these men would yield. Why not? 
They are accused as well as I. Shall 
they be privileged, because they, by 
subtle craft, complained first? where 
I, knowing no hurt in the thing, did 
not complain likewise. But they are 
two. We are also two. As in spiritual 
courts men are wont to purge their 
fames, let us try our fames for our 
honesties, and we will give them odds. 
And if the thing be earnestly marked, 
theirs is negative, ours is alBrmative. 
Our oaths ought to be received : theirs, 
in this point, cannot. 

'* But if tliat suspect should have 
been well and lawfully grounded before 
it had come as far as accusation, it 
should have been proved between Pole 
and me kin, acquaintance, familiarity, 
or else accord of opinions, whereby it 
might appear that my consent to 
Matton s going to him should be for a 
naughty purpose ; or else there should 
have been brought forth some success 
since, some letters, if none of mine, at 
the least of some others, some con- 
fession of some of liis adherents that 
have been examined or suffered. 

" But what ? There is none. Why 
•0? Thou shalt as Sf}onfind out oil out 
of a flint- stone t as find any such thiny in 
me. Wliat I meant by it is declared 
unto you. It was little for my avail : 
TX was to undermine him ; it was to bo 
a spy over him ; it was to learn an 
enemy's counsel. If it might have 
keen, had it been out of purpose trow 

you ? I answer now, as though it had 
been done on mine own head without 
the counsel of two of the King's 
Counsellors, and myself also the third ; 
there is also mine authority. I have 
received oft thanks from the King's 
Majesty, and his Councils, for things 
that I have gotten by such practices ; 
as I have in twenty letters, ' use now 
all your policy, use now all your friends, 
use now all your dexterity, to come to 
knowledge and iutelligence.* This and 
such like was my policy. . . To set 
spies over traitors, it is, I think, no new 
practice with ambassadors." 

Wyatt meets the other part of 
the accusation with no less ability 
and directness. ** Touching my 
«ayi«y," he says, ** For the love of 
our Lord, weigh it substantially; 
and yet withal, remember the 
naughty handling of my accusers 
iu the other point ; and in this yon 
shall see no less maliciousness, and 
a great deal more falsehood. . • 
. . Let this saying be interpreted 
in the highest kind of naughtiness 

and maliciousness This 

is (which God forbid should be 
thought of any man), that by 
throwing out of a cart's tail I should 
mean that vile death that is or- 
dained for wretched thieves. Be- 
sides this; put that I were the 
naughtiest rank traitor that ever 
the ground bore; doth any man 
think that I were so foolisH, so void 
of wit that I would have told Bonner 
and Haynes, which had already 
lowered at my fashions, that I would 
so shameful a thing to the King's 
Highne:»s ? Though I were, I say, 
80 naughty a knave, and not all of 
the wisest, yet am not I so very a 
fool, though I thoughtso abominably, 
to make them privy of it, with 
whom I had no great acquaintance, 
and much less trust. ... 

** But ye know, masters, it is a 
common proverb, * I am left out of 
the cart's tail,* and it is taken u^o^ 


Sir Thomas Wyatt, the Elder. 


packing gear together for carriage, 
that it is evil takea heed to, or 
negligently slips out of tlie cart 
and is lost. So upon this blessed 
peace, that was handled, as partly 
is touched before, where seemed to 
be union of most part of Chris- 
tendom, I saw that we hung yet in 
suspense between the two Princes 
that were at war, and that neither 
of them would conclude with us 
directly against the Bishop of Bome, 
and that we also would not conclude 
else with none of them ; whereby 
it may appear what I meant by the 
proverb, whereby I doubted they 
Slight conclude among themselves 
and leave us out. And in com- 
municating with some, peradven- 
ture, forecasting these perils, I 
might say * I fear, for all these 
men's fair promises, the king shall 
be left out of the cart s tail ; ' and 
lament that many good occasions 
had been let slip of concluding 
with one of those Princes, and I 
think that I have used the same 
proverb with some in talking. But 
that I used it with Bonner or 
Haynes I never remember ; and if 
I ever did, I am sure never as they 
couch the tale." 

Thus, and by other arguments 
which we forbear to quote, Wyatt 
disposes of the charge made against 
him of slandering the king. He 
does not make any apology for his 
conduct. He maintains fearlessly 
that he did what was right — he 
appeals to his judges directly on 
the question whether he did so or 
not; and he calls upon them to 
judge his conduct by its practical 
results, which he shows were for 
his country's benefit. His simple, 
terse old English is worthy of all 
admiration, his consciousness of 
innocence is inwoven with almost 
every phrase ; and his manly self- 
reliance appears in every turn of 
the argument. 

Unfortunately for poor Bonner 
he had thought fit to add to the 

charges of treason against Wyatt 
several personal charges of another 
sort. After disposing of the case 
of treason, 'Wyatt concludes his 
defence by a short reply to these 

The first charge was that he had not 
treated his colleagues with the dis- 
tinction due to ambassadors asso- 
ciated with him. His reply is — *' I 
report me to my servants, whereof 
some of them are gentlemen, right 
honest men ; to their own servauts ; 
yea, and let them answer themel vef>. 
Did ye not always sit at the supper 
end of the table ? Went ye abroad 
at any time to^^ether, but that 
either the one or the other was on 
my right hand P Came any man to 
visit me whom I made nut do ye 
reverence, and v'mt ve too ? Had 
ye not in the galley the most and 
best commodious places P Had any 
man a worse than I ? Where ye 
were charged with a groat, was not I 
charged with five ? Was not I for 
all this first in the commission ? 
Was not I ambassador resident? 
A better man than either of ye 
both should have gone without that 
honour that I did you, if he had 
looked for it. I know no man that 
did you dishonour^ hut your own 
unmannerly behaviour^ that made ye 
a laughing stock to all men that came 
in your company, and me sometimes 
to sweat for shame to seeye,^^ 

Another charge made against 
Wyatt was that he had said that 
Bonner and Haynes were " more 
meet to be parish priests than 
ambassadors." He retort?, ** By 
my troth, I never liked them indeed 
for ambassadors ; and no more did 
the most part of them that saw 
them, and namely, them that had 
to do with them. But that did I 
not talk, on my faith, with no 
stranger. But if I said they were 
meeter to be' parish priests, on my 
faith I never remember it ; and it 
is not like I should say so; for as 
far as I could see, neither of them 


Sir Thomas Wyatt, the Elder. 


both had greatly any fancy to mass, 
and that, ye know, were requisite 
for a parish priest ; for this can all 
that were there report, that not one 
of them all while they were there, 
said massi, or offered to hear mass, 
as though it was but a superstition." 
The parting hit administered by 
Wyatt to Bonner is as fine a piece 
of sarcastic oratory as we know. 
Bonner had accused him of '' living 
viciously among the nuns of Bar- 
celona." Wyatt admits his ac- 
quaintance witi) the nuns ; states 
that it was an innocent and cus- 
tomary pastime to frequent the 
nunnery ; and declares that ho 
'* used not the pastime in company 
of ruffians '* but with the nobility 
of Spain, and with the amba^isadors 
of Ferrara, Mantua, and Venice. 
Then ho turns upon poor Bonner, 
the instigator of the charge of vicious 
living made against him, and 
addresses him thus : — 

" Come on now, my Lord of London, 
what is my abomiuable and vicious 
living? Do ye know it, or have ye 
heard of it ? I grant I do not profess 
chastity . but yet I use not abomina- 
tion. If ye know it, tell it here, with 
whom, and when ? If ye heard it, who 
is your author? Have you seen me 
have any harlot in luy house whilst ye 
were in my company ? Did you ever 
see woman so much as dine, or sup at 
my table ? None, but for your pleas- 
m-e, the woman that was in the galley ; 
which I assure you may be well seen ; 
for, before you came, neither she nor 
any other came above the mRst. But 
because the gentlemen took pleasure to 
see you entertain her, therefore they 
made her dine and sap with you ; and 
they liked well your looks, your carving 
to Madonna, your drinking to her, and 
your playing under the table. Ask 
Mason, ask Blage (Bowes is dead), ask 
Wolf, that was my steward ; they can 
tell how the gentlemen marked it, and 
talked of it It was a play to them, 
the keeping of your bottles that no 
man might drink of but yourself ; and 
* That the little fat priest were a jolly 
morsel for the signora.' This was their 

talk ; it is not my devise ; ask other 
whether I do he." 

Asa matter of course, Sir Thomas 
Wyatt was acquitted of the crimes 
laid to his charge. To be hated 
and accused by Bonner could only 
add lustre to his fame. Many men 
of doubtful repute haveoccupied sees 
in the English Church, but few of 
them have been so notoriously 
iufamous as Edmund Bonner. His 
sanguinary persecution of the 
Protestants under Queen Mary will 
ever be a dark page in England's 
history ; and Englishmen will not 
soon forget his long imprisonment, 
and his burial at midnight to avoid 
the hoots of an angry populace. 

In 15 4^2 an ambassador from the 
Emperor was sent to England to 
conclude a treaty between Charles 
V. and Henry VIII. for mutual 
action against France. At Henry's 
request Wyatt journeyed to Fal- 
mouth, to meet the embassy and 
conduct it to Londou. On his way 
he was seized with a fever, which 
terminated his life in October, 1542. 
He died at the early age of thirty- 
nine years. 

In the speech from which we 
have quoted so largely, Wyatt refers 
to his opinions on religious topics, 
and he appears to have been fully 
sensible of the errors and defects 
of Romanism in his day. Defending 
himself against the charge of com- 
plicity with Cardinal Pole, he says, 
" Ye bring in now, that I should 
have this intelligence ^^ith Pole 
because of our opinion?, that are 
like, and that I am papish. I think 
I should have more ado with a great 
sort in England, to purge myself of 
suspect of a Lutheran than of a 

Two anecdotes are told of him 
which illustrate his Protestantism ; 
we might quote more. One day 
the King was conversing with him 
on the suppression of monasteries. 
Henry doubted much whether the 


Sir Thmnas Wyatt^ the Elder. 


country would submit to a contisca- 
tion of the nioDa&tic reveuues in 
favour of the Crown. He explained 
his difficulty to Wyatt, who replied, 
— ** Yes, Sire ; but what if the 
rook's nest were buttered ?" The 
King was not slow to see the appli- 
cation of the ])roverb, and the 
favour of the nobility was secured 
by sharing with thetn the Church 
revenues, which fell by confiscation 
to the Crown. 

The other anecdote is connected 
with Henry's divorce of Catherine 
of Arragon. The King was bent 
upon obtaining the divorce. The 
Pope was unwilling to grant it ; 
and Henry was superstitious enough 
to hesitate about carrying it through 
without papal authority. Wyatt 
knew the King's perplexity, and he 
is said to have exclaimed aloud in 
Henry's hearing : — "Heavens I that 
a man cannot repent him of his 
sins without the Pope's leave !** 
The speech sank deep into Henry's 
mind, and probably enough laid 
the foundation of what is now 
called the English Keformation.* 

Lloyd gives us a glimpse cf Sir 
Thomas Wyatt's character which 
we cannot omit : — 

" We are told," he says, *• that 
there were four things for which 
men went to dine with Sir Thomas 
Wyatt. 1st, his generous enter- 
tainment ; 2nd, his free and know- 
ing discourse of Spain and Ger- 
many, an insight into whose 
interests was his masterpiece, they 
haviug been studied by him for his 
own satisfaction as well as for the 
exigency of the times ; 3rd, his 
quickness in observing, his civility 
in entertaining, his dexterity in 
employing, and his readiness in 
encouraging every man's parts and 
incli nations ; and, lastly, the favour 

and notice with which he was hon- 
oured by the King."t 

Wyatt's death was commemorated 
in many epitaph:*, written by the 
chief men of letters of the time. 
Lord Surrey's verses are too well 
known to need quotation here. 
There are elegies by Leland, Sir 
John Mason, Sir Anthony St. 
Leger, Sir Thomas Chaloner, Park- 
hurst, Bishop of Norwich, and 
others. Lelands deserves to be 
reproduced for its elegance : — 

" Uma t€nct cineres ter magni parva 
Fama per immensas sed volat alta 

Parkhurst's is somewhat defiled 
with the conceits of the time, but 
we give it for what it is worth ; — 

*• Musarum venerandus ille Mystes 
Hoc sub marmore conditur Viatus : 
Flert casta} Veneres, Amor pudicus ; 
Flert Pitho, Charites, Novem Sorores 
Et tu fie to Viator, hunc Viatum. 
Joannes Parkhurst, 

We have traced Wyatt's career 
as a diplomatist from the cradle to 
the grave ; but his fame really 
rests on his poetry, and we shall 
conclude our account of him with a 
very brief notice of his poetical 
works. To him, and to Lord Surrey, 
who was his junior by several years, 
we are indebted for the introduc- 
tion into England of the lyric 
grace of Italian poetry. " In the 
latter end of the same Kinge's 
(Henry VIII.) raigne," says an 
old writer, ** sprongo up a new 
company of courtly makers, of 
whom Sir Thomas Wyatt, the Elder, 
and Henry, Earl of Surrey, were 
the two clieftaines, who having tra- 

• See ** Miscellaneous Antiqaities," No. II. p. 16, &c. Printed at Strawberry Hill, 
1772. 4to. 
t Lloyd's " Wortliies,'' II. 87. 


Sir Thomas Wyatt, the Elder. 


Tailed into Italic, and there tasted 
the sweete and stately measures 
and stile of the Italian poesie, as 
novices newly crept out of the 
schooles of Dante, Ariosto, and 
Petrarch, thej greatly polished our 
rude and homely manner of vulgar 
poesie, from that it had heen he fore, 
and for that cause may justly be 
sayd the first reformers of our 
English meeter and stile."* 

There are many traces of the in- 
fluence of Petrarch in Wyatt's 
verses. Many of his phrases are 
direct translations from the famous 
sonnets of the Italian lyrist; and 
Wyatt's Songs and Sonnets^ as well 
as his Odes, and the great majority 
of his other poems are, like Pe- 
trarch's verses, descriptions of the 
varying moods of the lover. We 
make bold to confess that we find 
it difficult to maintain any deep 
interest in the famous Laura. Pe- 
trach's letters are of far more 
interest than his sonnets ; and 
Wyatt's speech in his own defence 
ranks higher in our estimation than 
his verses, considered as mere 

But Wyatt must be credited with 
the merit of having been the first 
to introduce into English literature 
the nuances de langage'^hizh Surrey 
imitated, and which reappear at in- 
tervals in the writings of our great 
poets. He is often a little hard. 
He had not the supreme gift of 
genius — the ars celare artem. Art 
appears prominently in every line 
of his poetry, and no one who ex- 
amines with care the manuscript 
copy of his poems will fail to see 
that he did not grudge the labor 
lima. The task he set before him 
was not an easy one. He had to 
tune the rough letters of England 
to a music and a melody which 
were foreign to the genius of the 
English language as it was spoken 
in his time ; and if he did not 

entirely succeed in his efforts, ho 
at least made a noble attempt to 
succeed, and he laid the foundation 
on which subsequent poets have 
built a lofty superstructure. He 
adopts for his verse more varied 
and rythmical measures than any 
poet of his time. 

Warton quotes, and we shall 
follow his example, the following 
ode as a specimen of Wyatt's 
poetry. There is an instinctive 
grace in it which shines out above 
all the little blemishes of expres- 

" The Lover Complaineth the Unkind^ 
' ness of his Love. 

'* My Lute, awake! perform the last 
Labour that thou and I shall waste ! 

And end that I have now begun : 
And when this song is sung and past, 

My lute ! be still, for I have done. 

" As to be heard where ear is none ; 
As lead to grave in marble stone ; 
My song may pierce her heart as 
Should we then sigh, or sing, or moan? 
No, no, my lute ! for I have done. 

" The rocks do not so cruelly 
Kepulsti thtt waves continually, 
As she my suit and affection, 
So that I am past remedy ; 

Whereby my lute and I have done. 

** Proud of the spoil that thou hast got 

Of simple hearts through Love's hliot. 

By whom unkind thou hobt them 

won : 

Think not he hath his bow forgot, 

Although my lute and I have done. 

** Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain, 
Thou makest but gome on earnest 
Think not alone under the sun 
Unquit to cause thy lovers plain ; 
Altliough my lute and I have done. 

•* May chance tliee lie withered and old. 
In winter nights, tliat are so cold, 

Plaining in vain unto tlie moon ; 
Thy wishes then dare not be told : 

Care then who list, for I have done. 

*< Arte of English Poeaie," Lib. i, c. 31, p. 48, ed. 1589. 


Sir Thomas Wyatt, the Elder. 


** And then may chance thee to repent 

Tlie time that thou hast lost and spent, 

To cause tliy lovers sigh and swoon: 

Then shalt thou know beauty but lent 

And wish and want as I have dune. 

*' Now cease, my lute ! this is the last 
Labour that thou and I shall waste ; 

And ended is that we begun : 
Now is tliid song both sung and past ; 

My lute ! be still, for I have done." 

It would not be difficult to trace 
much of this ode to Horace ; but 
it is not the less interesting on that 
account. Englisli lyric poetry 
could not have been modelled on 
anything better than the old classics 
and their Italian imitators.. 

In one respect Wyatt's poetry is 
worthy of all admiration. The love 
of which he sings is the pure, chival- 
ric sentiment, untainted by any 
trace of earthly sensuousness. If 
you contrast him with the fleshli- 
ness of men like Swinburne, you 
at once see in him a nobler form of 
thought, a mind in which the pas- 
sions are subdued by the intellect. 
This rondel runs with wonderful 
smoothness : — 

*• The Loi'cr semJeth Sighs to move his 


** Go, burning sighs ! unto the frozen 
To break the ice, which pity's painful 

Might never pierce : and if that mortal 
In heaven be heard, at least yet I 
That death, or mercy, end my woful 
Take with thee pain, whereof I 
have my part, 
Ajid cko the ilamo from which I can- 
not start. 
And leave me then in rest, I you re- 
Go, burning sighs ! fulfil that I desire, 
I must go work. I see, by craft and 

For truth and fiaith in her is Itdd apart : 
Alas, I cannot therefore now assail 

"With pitiful complaint and scalding 

That from my breast deceivably doth 


Go, burning sighs ! *' 

One more specimen of "Wyatt's 
odes and we have done with them. 
The versification is not so polished 
as we would wish ; but the senti- 
ment is full of nobility. The verses 
are entitled: — 

" lie RiUeth not, tliough he Reujn over 
Realms^ that is subject to his own 

" If thou wilt mighty be, flee irom the 
Of cruel will ; and see thou keep 
thee free 
From the foul yoke of sensual bon- 
For though thine empire stretch 

to Indian Sea 
And for thy fear trembleth the 
farthest Thule, 
If [thy desire have over thee tlie 

Subject then art tliou, and no 

" If to be noble and high thy mind be 
Consider well thy ground and tliy 
beginning ; 
For he tliat hath each star in heaven 
And gives the moon her horns and 

lier eclipsing. 
Alike hath made thee noble in his 
working ; 
So that wretched no way may thou 

Except foul lust and vice do conquer 


** All* were it so thou had a flood of 
Unto thy thirst, yet should it not 


• AU— although. 


Sir Thomas Wyatt, the Elder. 


And tlioagh with Indian stones, a 
More precious than can thyself 

Y-charged were tliy hack : thy 
And husy biting yet should never 

Tliv wretched life, no do thv death 
" profet." 

It is in his satires that Wyail's 
taleot shines with the brightest 
lustre. Warton is not far wrong in 
describing him as " tbe first polished 
English Satirist." The stamp of 
truth and honour is on every lino 
of his " Satires." In one of them, 
** written to John Poins," he savs — 

•'My Poins, I cannot frame my tongue 
to feign. 
To cloak Uie tmtli, for praise without 

Of them that list all vice for to re- 
I cannot honour them that set their 

With Venus and Bacchus all their 

life long ; 
Nor hold my peace of them although 

I smarc. 
I cannot crouch nor kneel to such a 

wrong : 
To worsliip them like God on earth 

That are as wolves tliese scly lambs 


Wyatt's poems will undoubtedly 
repay the studious reader for his 
trouble in acquainting himself with 
them. He was one of the mould- 
ers of our roagniilcent English lan- 
guage. It is a matter of regret 
that he id now so little read. 

174 Our Portrait GaUsry. [Feb. 


SECOND SEEIB3.— Xo. 37. 


Corresponding Member of the Institut de France, 

The Dean of Westminster enjoys a reputation second to that of no 
churchman of his time for the genial courtesy of his character, the 
cultured liberality of his spirit, and the graphic power of his pen. On 
questions of Church polity he has encountered many and determined 
opponents, for he is unflinching in controversy wherever the great broad 
principles of religious liberty are at stake. Ritualists dislike the breadth 
of his views ; the Evangelical party dislikes his tolerance ; and Dissenters 
dislike his loyalty to the State Church ; but all parties are ready to bear 
witness that he is a chivalrous champion of his cause, and that no personal 
animosities stain the fervour with which he maintains his principles. 

The Dean was born in 181 5, and is a son of the late Dr. Edward Stanley, 
Bishop of Norwich. He was educated at Rugby, under the famous Dr. 
Thomas Arnold, of whom he was a favourite pupil, and whose biographer 
he afterwards became. From Rugby school he passed to Balliol College, 
Oxford, wliere he held a scholarship. His connection with the University 
of Oxford was long and honourably distinguished. He received the 
Newdcgate prize for English poetry, and in 1837 gained the Ireland 
scholarship and took a first class in classics. The Latin Essay prize was 
awarded to him in 1839, and in the following year the prizes for the 
English and Theological Essays. In the latter year he was elected a 
fellow of University College, of which he was tutor for twelve years. 

In 1844 he made his first venture in tlie world of letters by the publica- 
tion of his " Life of Dr. Arnold," a work which at once took rank in the very 
highest class of English biographies, and which may now fairly be regarded 
as a British classic. No doubt the liberal spirit of the great school- 

l/f^lfW /^ i/^^ 

PHOTOCftAPHtD ays a. walker. \.0Ht>OM. 

1877.] Our Portrait Gallery. 175 

master eontiibuted much to implant in his pupil those wide and 
charitable habits of thought for which the Dean of Westminster is 
dbtinguished. To have been the pupil of Thomas Arnold is a proud 

In 1846 the ** Life of Dr. Arnold" was followed by a volume from Dean 
Stanley *s pen entitled ** Stories and Essays on the Apostolic Age," and in 
1850 he published his " Memoirs of Bishop Stanley.*' 

In 1854, in conjunction with Professor Jowett, Dean Stanley published 
an edition and translation of the Pauline Epistles, with extensive critical 
notes and dissertations, a model of historical exegesis, and of honest 
unprejudiced endeavour to expound the apostle apart from considerations; 
of creed or sect. *• By one capital merit," says Dr. James Martineau, "*' the 
work renders a most important service to the progress of a just theology. 
It shows conclusively what the apostle did not mean : that the dogmatic 
statements drawn from his language overstrain his purpose — defining 
more than he intended to define, universalizing what he left in the 
particular, pronouncing on theses which were not present to his thought. 
The reader is so put into possession of the historical and personal situation 
of St. Paul, as to be recalled from the abstractions of modem metaphysical 
divinity to the concrete scenery, the local life, the party controversies of 
the apostolic age. He is familiarized with the idea of a gradual change 
and expansion of the apostle's own theology, and of some illusory 
conceptions blended with it throughout. And he is led to contemplate 
the * Man of Tarsus ' in relation to analogous spiritual experiences in 
other ages of awakened faith." ♦ 

Deau Stanley was Select Preacher to the University in 1845-46; 
Secretary to the Oxford University Commission in 1850-52; and was 
appointed Canon of Canterbury in 1851. In 1854 he published his 
" Historical Memorials of Canterbury," a volume of much interest and of 
which several editions were rapidly sold. 

Early in 1856 he gave to the world his book on Sinai and Palestine ;t 
of which twenty editions have been sold. In the winter of 1852 and the 
spring of 185B he had visited the scenes of sacred history in Egypt,. 
Arabia and Syria ; and this volume on Sinai and Palestine was the first- 
fruit of the journey. Its object is to illustrate the relation in which the 
history and the geography of the Jews stand to each other. It was 
originally undertaken, the author tells us in the preface to his subsequent 
volumes on the Jewish Church, with the express purpose of a preparation 
for that great work. One is struck in every chapter with the indefatigable 
zeal of the traveller, with his unsparing trouble in investigating and 

* Introdnction to Tayler's "Retrospect of the Koligious Life of England," 2nd edition. 
London, 1876, p. 11. 
t " Sinai and Palestine, in connection wiili their History." 

176 Oar Portrait Gallery. [Feb. 

describing the localities tbrongh which he passes, and with the largeness 
of the historical and geographical knowledge which he has at command 
for illustrative purposes. His pictures are vivid in the extreme. Land- 
scape after landscape, city after city, are graphicly described, sometimes 
in the glory, sometimes in the gloom of Eastern colouring, always with a 
wealth of literarv and historical illustration that charms as well as instructs. 
We extmct from a letter written on the spot, and quoted in the introduction 
to the work, two brief but most graphic descriptions of Nile scenery. The 
first is entitled ** The Nile in the Delta." 

*' The Eastern sky was red with the early dawn : we were on the broad 
waters of the Nile — or rather its Rosetta branch. The fii*st thing which 
struck me was its size. Greater than the Rhine, Rhone, or Danube, one 
perceives what a sea-like stream it must have appeared to Greeks and 
Italians, who had seen nothing larger then the narrow and precarious 
torrents of their own mountains and valleys. As the light broke, its 
colour gradually revealed itself, — brown like the Tiber, only of a darker, 
richer hue — no strong current, only a slow, vast volume of water, mild 
and beneficent as his statue in the Vatican, steadily flowing on between 
its two almost uniform banks, which rise above it much like the banks of 
a canal, though in some places with terraces or strips of earth, marking 
tlie successive stages of the flood. 

** These banks form the horizon on either side, and therefore you can 
have no notion of the country beyond ; but tliey are varied by a succession 
of eastern scenes. Villages of mud rise like ant-hills, with human beings 
creeping about like ants, except in numbers and activity. Mostly they 
are distinguished by the minaret, of a well-built mosque, or the white 
oven-like dome of a Sheykh's tomb; mostly, also, screened by a grove of 
palms, sometimes intermixed wnth feathery tamarisks, and the thick foliage 
of the carob-tree or the sycamore. Verdure, where it is visible, is light 
green, but the face of the bank is usually brown. Along the top of the 
banks move, like scenes in a magic lantern, and as if cut out against 
the sky, groups of Arabs, with their two or three asses, a camel, or a 

A little farther up the river the Nile valley commences, and our next 
quotation describes it. 

" Two limestone ranges press it (the river) at unequal intervals, some- 
times leaving a space of a few miles, sometimes of a few yards, sometimes 
even of a large plain. They are truly parts of a table-mountain. Hardly 
ever is their horizontal line varied ; the only change in them is their 

nearer or less approach to the stream Immediately above the 

brown or blue waters of the broad, calm, lake-like river, rises a thick 
black bank of clod or mud, mostly in terraces. Green — unutterably 
green — mostly at the top of these banks, though sometimes creeping 
down to the water's edge, lies the land of Egypt, Green— unbroken. 

1877.] Our Portrait GaUery. 177 

save by the mud villages which here and there lie in the midst of the 
verdure, like the marks of a soiled foot on a rich carpet ; or by the dykes 
and channels which convey the life-giving waters through the thirsty 
land. This is the land of Egypt, and this is tlie memorial of the yearly 
flood. Up to those black terraces, over the green fields, the water rises 
and descends — 

* Et vindem JEgyptum nigra foecundat arena.* 

And not only when the flood is actually there, but throughout the whole 
year, is water continually ascending through innumerable fields worked 
by naked figures, as the Israelites of old * in the service of the field,' and 
then flowing on in gentle rills through the various allotments. To th6 
seeds of these green fields, to the fishes of the wide river, is attached 
another natural phenomenon, which I never saw equalled ; the numbers 
numberless of all manner of birds— vultures, and cormorants, and geese, 
flying like constellations through the blue heavens ; pelicans standing in 
long array on the water side ; hoopoes and ziczacs, and the (so-called) 
white ibis, the gentle symbol of the God Osiris in his robes of white ; 
'if wocrif ti^lfxnot — walking under one's very feet" 

These descriptions are like cameos. We regret that our limited space 
prohibits us from " setting " many more of them in our pages. 

From 1858 to 1863 Dr. Stanley was Regius Professor of Ecclesiastical 
History at Oxford, Canon of Christ Church, and Chaplain to the Bishop 
of London. 

His Lectures on Ecclesiastical History form the basis of his well-known 
** History of the Jewish Church," of which the first edition appeared in 
186'^, the second in 1865, and a third this year. It was the purpose of 
Dean Stanley, in composing this work, ** so to delineate the outward 
events of Sacred History as that they should come home with new power 
to those who by familiarity have almost ceased to regard them as histori- 
cal truths at all : so to bring out their inward spirit, that the more com- 
plete realization of their outward form should not degrade but exalt the 
Faith of which they are the vehicle.** 

It is not too much to say of this History that from first to last the 

narrative never flags, while ever and anon it bursts forth into passages of 

real eloquence. The majestic figures of the Patriarchs, Judges, and 

Prophets of Israel are clothed by Dean Stanley with a new glory ; yet it 

is a glory which is not new — only the light of ages long past has been 

made again to shine upon them. The laborious research, the careful 

study of natural scenery, the far-reaching literary attainments of the 

Dean are beyond all praise ; his appreciation of the various epochs of 

Jewish history, and of its development from Abraham's days to the rise 

of Ghi'istianity is indicative of deep histoiicil insight ; and his intense 


178 Our Portrait Gallery. [Feb. 

sympathy with the heroes of whom he writes enables him to realize and 
explain their characters, their deeds, and their writings with surpassing 
interest. The reader neyer for a moment feels that he has been carried 
back to investigate histories thousands of years old : rather that men 
and scenes thousands of years old are being brought into his very 

All through the work Dean Stanley's tolerant spirit emphatically 
asserts itself. He quotes, early in the first volume, an " ancient Jewish 
or Persian apologue, of doubtful origin, but of most insti'uctive wisdom, 
of almost Scriptural simplicity," the spirit of which he seems to have 
largely imbibed and consistently acted upon. It is as follows :— 

*' When Abraham sat at his tent-door, according to his custom, waiting 
to entertain strangers, be espied an old man stooping and leaning on his 
staff, weary with age and travel, coming towards him, who was an 
hundred years of age. He received him kindly, washed his feet, pro- 
vided supper, caused him to sit down, but observing that the old man ate 
and prayed not, nor begged for a blessing on his meat, asked him why he 
did not worship the God of heaven ? The old man told him that he 
worshipped the fire only, and acknowledged no other God ; at which 
answer Abraham grew so zealously angry that he thrust the old man out 
of his tent, and exposed him to all the evils of the night and an 
unguarded condition. When the old man was gone, God called to Abra- 
ham and asked where the stranger was ; he replied : ' I thrust him away 
because he did not worship thee.' God answered, ' / have suffered him 
these hundred years, though he dishonoured me; and couldst thou not endure 
him for one nighty when he gave thee no trouUe f * Upon this, saith the 
story, Abraham fetched him back again, and gave him hospitable enter- 
tainment and wise instruction. Go thou and do likewise^ and thy chatity 
will be rewarded by the Goo of Abraham." 

Every attempt on the part of humanity to realize its relation to the One 
great Creator and Father of All, the Dean of Westminster sees to be a 
step in the right direction. He traces the struggles by which the Jewish 
mind attained to the idea of the One God. To Abraham he ascribes the 
grand generalization by which, for the first time in authentic history. 
Eastern polytheism was superseded by a rational monotheism ; or rather, 
the many aspects of God which had been previously personified as sepa- 
rate Deities were recognized as merely various manifestations of the One. 
But the same struggles carried on in other nations, and under other con- 
ditions, meet with close S3rmpathy from the Dean, not with the reasonless 
condemnation which is so freely bestowed upon them by tlie bigot and the 
creed-monger. All such streams of thought tend equally towards the 
first grand principle oT all religion, the knowledge of Jehovah — the I am 
— whom Moses revealed as the unseen and self-existent God. 

The Prophets are the true national heroes of the Jews, Kings and 

1877.] Our Portrait Gallery. 179 

eocqaerors fade into obscurity before their fame. How many of us have 
been taught to regai*d them as mere foretellers of future events, rather 
than in their true character of searchers after God and expounders of His 
discovered will to the people ? There are signs of the times which have 
enabled wise men in all ages to predict the future. The Jewish prophets 
possessed that wisdom in a high degree, but it was no specialty of their 
ofiBce to draw away the veil which hangs between man and the days to 
come. Yet, as Dean Stanley says with truth, *' the Prophets of the Old 
Dispensation did in a marked and especial manner look forward to the 
future. It was this which gave to the whole Jewish nation an upward, 
forward, progressive character, such as no Asiatic, no ancient, I may 
almost say, no other nation has ever had in the same degree. Represent- 
ing as they did the whole people, they shared and they personified the 
general spirit of tenacious trust and hope that distinguishes the people 
itself. Their warnings, their consolations, their precepts, when relating to 
the past and the present, are clothed in imagery drawn from the future. 
The very form of the Hebrew verb, in which one tense is used both for 
the past and the future, lends itself to this mode of speech. They were 
conceived as shepherds seated on the head of one of the hills of Judsea, 
seeing far over the heads of their flocks, and guiding them accordingly ; 
or as watchmen standing on some lofty tower, with a wider horizon within 
their view than that of ordinary men.*' 

The prophets sought and obtained that communion with God which 
be never withholds from those who earnestly and reverently seek it. They 
were, according to the Dean, the preachers of the Unity and Sprituality 
of God, of the supremacy of moral above ceremonial duties ; they were 
leaders not alone of individuals but of the nation ; they lived indepen- 
dently, *' elevated above the passions, and prejudices, and distractions of 
common life." And when they spoke of the future they gave ** signal 
proof that the Bible is really the guiding book of the World's history. 
In its anticipations, predictions, insight into the wants of men, far 
beyond the age in which it was written." 

It will be seen that Dean Stanley's view of the functions of the 
prophets attaches a human interest to their history which drops out of 
existence when they are regarded as the mere inspired mouth-pieces of a 
God mechanically revealing himself in their utterances ; and that the 
annals of the Jewish Church, and of the Jewish nation, which was co- 
extensive with the Church, live a new life in his thoughtful and richly 
varied story. We are glad to observe that he allows us to hope for yet 
another volume, although the task he originally set himself is concluded 
in the recently issued Vol. Ill , from which, as an admirable specimen of 
rhetoric art, brilliant without being overstrained, we make the following 
extract, descriptive of the fall of Babylon : — 

•• • In that same night was Belshazzar the King slain '—so briefly and 

180 Our Portrait Gallery. [Feb. 

terribly is the narrative cut short in the Book of Daniel. But from the 
contemporary authorities, or those of the next century, we are able to fill 
up some of the details as they were anticipated or seen at the time. It 
may be that, as according to Berosus, the end was not without a struggle, 
and that one or other of the kings who ruled over Babylon was killed in 
a hard-won fight without the walls. But the larger part of the accounts 
are steady to the suddenness and completeness of the shock, and all com- 
bine in assigning an important part to the great river, which, as it had 
been the pride of Babylon, now proved its destruction. The stratagems 
by which the water was diverted, first in the Gyndes and then in the 
Euphrates, are given partly by Herodotus and partly by Xenophon. It 
is their effect alone which need here be described. ' A way was made in 
the sea' — that sea-like lake — 'and a path in the mighty waters.' 
' Chariot and horse, army and power* are, as in the battle of the Milvian 
bridge, lost in the dark stream to rise up no more, extinguished like a 
torch plunged in the waters. The hundred gates, all of bronze, along the 
vast circuit of the walls, the folding-doors, the two-leaved gates which so 
carefully guarded the approaches of the Euphrates, opened as by magic 
for the conqueror ; ' her waves roared like great waters, tlie thunder of 
their voice was uttered.* The inhabitants were caught in the midst of 
their orgies. The Hebrew seer trembled as he saw the revellers uncon- 
scious of their impending doom, like the Persian seer for his own 
countrymen before the battle of Platsea, ixfiirn ocvm. But it was too 
late. ' Her princes, and her wise men, and her captains, and her rulers 
and her mighty men were cast into a perpetual sleep,* from which they 
never w^oke. They succumbed without a struggle, they forbore to fight. 
They remained in the fastnesses of their towering houses ; their might 
failed ; they became as women, they were hewn down like the fiocks of 
lambs, of sheep, of goats, in the shambles or at the altar. To and fro, in 
the panic of that night, the messengers encountered each other with the 
news that the city was taken at one end, before the other end knew. The 
bars were broken, the passages were stopped, the tall houses were in 
flames, the fountains were dried up by the heat of the conflagration. 
The conquerors, chiefly the fiercer mountaineers firom the Median moun- 
tains, dashed through the terrified city like wild beasts. They seemed to 
scent out blood for its own sake ; they cared not for the splendid metals 
that lay in the Babylonian treasure-houses ; they hunted down the fugi- 
tives as if they were chasing deer or catching runaway sheep. With 
their huge bows they cut in pieces tlie young men whom they encoun- 
tered ; they literally fulfilled the savage wish of the Israelite captives, by 
seizing the infant children and hurling them against the ground, till they 
were torn limb from limb in the terrible havoc. A celestial sword flashes 
a first, a second, a third, a fourth, and yet again a fiftli time, at each sue- 
cessive blow sweeping away the Chiefs of tlie State, the idle boasters, the 

1877.] Our Portrait Gallery. 181 

chariots, the treasures, the watera. The Hammer of the Nations struck 
again and again and again, as on the resounding anvil —and with re- 
peated blows beat down the shepherd as he drove bis flock through the 
wide pasture of the cultivated spaces, the husbandman as he tilled the 
lich fields within the walls with his yoke of oxen — no less than the 
lordly prince or chief. The houses were shattered ; the walls with their 
broad walks on their tops, the gateways mounting up like towers, were in 

Not less interesting, nor less graphic, are many other pictures con- 
tained in this history. The story of Abraham, for example ; of Elijah 
on Carmel competing with the priests of Baal ; of the death of Elijah; 
of Balaam and Balak ; of Jonah. We cannot condense them in quota- 
tation without destroying their effect, and we therefore refrain from 
quoting farther. 

In 1862 Dr. Stanley made a second visit to the Holy Land as one of 
the suite of the Prince of Wales, and was fortunate enough to be one of 
the party who, through the Prince's influence, were admitted to inspect 
the Mosque of Hebron, a favour which had not been accorded to any 
European since the Mussulman occupation in a.d. 1187. A most 
interesting description of the interior of the Mosque and of the tombs 
of Abraham, and Sarah, and the patriarchs, and others who rest in the 
cave of Macphelah, is appended to his ** Sermons preached in the East 
before the Prince of Wales." In 1863 he was appointed Dean of 

We have already referred to the tolerant spirit of Dean Stanley. In 
justice both to the Dean and to those who differ from him we shall have 
to speak more fully on the subject. In the Church of England there are 
at present three parties : the High Church party ; the Low Church party; 
and the Broad Church party. Of the Broad Church party the Dean of 
Westminster is the acknowledged leader. 

What is Dean Stanley's Broad Churchism? This, so far as we under- 
stand him, and neither more nor less than this : the '* Church " is the 
nation looked at in its religious aspect : the services of the Church ought 
in every pulpit of the land, and at every altar in the land, to express 
the common religious feeling of the people. In this way every citizen 
ought to join in the national religious services ; and it is scandalous and 
schismatic to formulate these national services so as to exclude any 
member of the community seeking after the truth from participating in 

There may be grounds on which this principle can be found fault with : 
hut we are not ashamed to confess that we do not perceive them. We 
know that tbe Dean of Westminster has had a hard battle to fight in 
defence of his view. We know also that he will gain the victory, or die in 
harness. Whether it will be in his day or not. Magna est Veritas et pravalebit 

182 Our Portrait Gallery. [Feb. 

The truth is that petty subdivisions are jsubyersiye of all real religion, and 
productive only of theological controversy, from which no man can reap 
real profit Why should mountains be made of molehills ? Is a man to 
be severed as regards religion from perhaps his dearest friend because, 
forsooth, they differ about the Filioque clause of the Nicene creed ? Or 
is a man to be deemed a heretic because he will not consent that every 
one who differs from a given set of theological principles shall annually 
be consigned to eternal damnation **upon these Feasts^ the Epiphany, 
St. ^Matthias, Easter-day, Ascension Day, Whitsunday, St. John Baptist, 
St. James, St. Bartholomew, St. Matthew, St. Simon and Jude, St. Andrew^ 
and upon Trinity Sunday !"* 

Poor St. Athanasius * Few men have suffered more persecution than 
he suffered. Half his life was spent in exile. When a price was set 
upon his head he fled for protection to the hermits who dwelt in the 
deserts of Egypt. Even there his enemies pursued him, and lest his 
presence should bring danger on his protectors he betook himself with 
one faithful servant to the untrodden wastes of Libya. His mild treat- 
ment of his enemies, when fortune restored him to his Bishopric, has been 
proverbial in the Church for a millenium : yet the crass ignorance of 
Ecclesiastics has attached his name to the most damnatory of all the 
creeds ! And men are condemned from year to year to eternal torments 
ui terms of the forged creed which passes under his name on the 
festivals above enumerated. 

Of recent years a movement arose in the Church of England for a 
cessation of dispensing this wholesale everlasting damnation. The Dean 
of Westminster was one of those who conceived that the Church might 
continue its existence without damage to its usefulness even though it 
refrained from these periodical curses. He supported, both in convocation 
and in public, the proposal to abolish the use of the Athanasian creed. 

It was a question on which he spoke out, and his expressed views on 
it are highly illustrative of his character. In the Lower House of Con- 
Yocatiun in April, 1872, he maintained that the damnatory clauses of the 
Athanasian creed " belong to that wretched system which regarded heresy 
as a crime which the Church and the State and all the powers of earth 
were bound to extirpate. I hold." he said, ** that this opinion which is 
thus incorporated in the damnatory clauses is absolutely false, and I will 
venture to say, not only is it absolutely false, but it is believed by every single 
member of this House to be absolutely false,** And continued the Dean, 
" When the Primates of the Church, in the Upper House of Convocation 
declared, without any single bishop answering them, that there was not 
one bishop of the chamber who received these clauses in their plain 

* AthtnairiMi Creed. 

1877.1 Our Portrait Gallery. 18S 

literal sense, the Primate was only saying that which plain Christian 
duty and justice called upon him to say." 

This same effort to release a man from the necessity of condemning 
his neighbour's opinion, while he retains his own opinion and his right 
to express it in any and all circumstances in which he may be placed — 
this effort should surely succeed. Does religion consist solely in scholastic 
dogmas? Is eveiy one to be consigned to eternal perdition who does not 
look through the ant quated spectacles of the Fathers, the early reformers, 
or the Puritans ? Surely not. 

As another illustration of the liberal spirit of the Dean, we may record 
that the pulpit of Westminster Abbey has under his regime been opened 
to Dr. Colenso, to Dr. Moffat, and to Professor Max Miiller. The usual 
criticism followed : the Dean was blamed for laxity ; but reasonable men 
look with unmeasured delight on the opening of the Westminster lectern 
to the intellect of the day. 

Dean Stanley is a professed Erastian. We have heard the word used, 
especially in Scotland, as a term of obloquy — used however by men who 
took a very narrow view of the principles professed by Erastus. Erastianism 
is only objectionable when a narrow creed is established and imposed 
on the community. Widen your creed sufficiently, provide religious 
instruction through a National Church which shall as far as is practicable 
reflect all shades of national opinion, but which shall not give its m- 
primatur to Calvinism or Arminianism or any ism. Who is injured 
thereby ? On the other hand, who is not benefited ? 

The system of Erastus is, he says, *• a system in the judgment of many 
far more beneficial than mere Episcopacy, and far less liable to super- 
stitious abuse — the system which is called ' Erastianism, in its sources, 
its tendencies, and its historical development ' — that is to say, the system 
advocated by all our Protestant Reformers, by the most liberal Church- 
men, and by the most philosophic statesmen of the last two centuries — 
the system of giving the nation a share in the government of the Church 
and subjecting the fancies of the clergy to the control of the most 
intelligent portion of the laity— the system of securing to at least one 
institution in the country a liberty * which admits of almost every school 
of theology within its pale,* and which encourages as much intercourse 
with Nonconformists as the nation represented in Parliament desires. 
To insist on destroying this system, merely because it happens not to 
commend itself to the consciences of those who are perfectly free not to 
avail themselves of it, and who in fact indignantly refuse to accept of it 
for themselves, would be quite as injurious to those who are conscien- 
tiously attached to such a system, and quite as inconsistent with 
liber&l principles, as was the attempt of the Church of 1662 to suppress 
Presbyterianism or Congregationalism, or of the Presbyterians or Con- 
gregationalists of 1649 to destroy Episcopacy/' 

184 Oar Portrait Gallery. [Feb. 

Imposing no theological fetters on others, Dean Stanley claims the 
right for himself, which he freely accords to his neighbours, of forming 
his own opinions and preaching them. He speaks no damnation to those 
who hold dogmatic views differing firom his own. We quote a few lines 
thoroughly indicative of his spirit. "I entirely repudiate," he says^ 
speaking of the FiUoque clause, *' the idea that these great fathers and 
patriarchs of the Eastern Church are everlastingly lost on that account. 
Whether they were right or wrong in their view of the Double Proces- 
sion, it is not for me to say ; but what I do maintain is, that whether they 
were right or wrong makes not the slightest difference to their salvation. 
Justin Martyr, Gregory of Nyssa, Gregory of Nazianzus, St. Basil — not 
one of these, I will venture to say, has been everlastingly lost because 
they denied one of the most essential formularies contained in St. Atha- 
nasius's Creed." 

The following little picture of the Dean is from an able pen :• — 
** The Latitudinarians of the seventeenth century found a centre of 
union in Lord Falkland's house. If we looked for a corresponding 
rallying point where we might expect to meet the modem successors of 
Hales and Chillingworth, we should perhaps ^x our eye upon the Deanery 
of Westminster : only that here the High Church Archdeacon, the Low 
Church Curate, the Presbyterian Moderator, the Independent Minister, 
are likely also to be found. Falkland gathered together a private club, 
to talk of latitude ; the Dean of Westminster lays himself out with reso- 
lute consistency to practise it ; not hesitating to let his venerable abbey 
hear the voice, now of an Oxford Layman, now of a Glasgow Professor, 
and now of a Nonconformist Missionary ; or himself to occupy the pulpit 
in parishes beyond the Tweed. This courageous openness, in preaching, 
in writing, in the Convocation debates, and in social action, contrasts 
strongly with the reserve of the old Latitudinarians, and has greatly 
strengthened the liberal wing of the Church of England. Complaint 
indeed is sometimes heard that its leading preachers do not define their 
precise theological position ; while unshrinkingly rejecting popular 
errors, they are too reticent as to the form of faith which they preserve. 
The complaint proceeds from the lingering dogmatic conception of 
Christian Union, against which it is their purpose to protest. They 
insist that religious worship and fellowship might be much more com- 
prehensive than it is, and that the obtrusion of dogmatic superfluities is 
a schismatic act, hurtful to piety and charity, and disguising tlie true 
spiritual affinities of men. Their own minds have passed into a region 
above the hindrances to sympathy ; and though they may carry defiuition 
to the last degree of refinement in the study, they would surrender them, 
selves to common trusts and affections in the Church. The possibility 

* That of Dr. Martineau. 

1877.J Our Portrait Gallery. 185 

of this is precisely what it is their mission to show ; and to demand from 
them, in its discharge, they shall tell you just where they agree and 
cease to agree with others, is to ask them to recant and renounce their 

Dean Stanley is Rector of the University of St. Andrews in Scotland, 
and is a Doctor of Laws in that University, an honour conferred upon 
him in 1871. In 1872 he was a second time elected Select Preacher to 
the University of Oxford, in the face of a violent opposition, joined in by 
both Ritualists and Low Churchmen, the vote in Convocation by which 
his appointment was conBrmed being 349 against 287. We quote the 
figures to show that the Liberal party in the Church of England is on the 

The Dean is author of many works which we have not been able to 
notice in detail, all of them characterized by the same eloquent advocacy 
of religious freedom. Among others we may refer to his *' Lectures on 
the Eastern Church,** his edition of " Bishop Stanley's Addresses and 
Charges," his volume on the Church of Scotland, " Scripture Portraits," 
and various volumes of Sermons. Since he became Dean of West- 
minster he has also written ** Historical Memorials of Westminster 
Abbey." It is well known that he has been a large contributor to the 
Reviews and other periodicals. 

Any sketch of D jan Stanley would be incomplete if it did not make 
some reference to his late wife. Lady Augusta Stanley, a daughter of 
Lord Elgin's, was loved as widely as she was known. She was formerly 
a lady-in-waiting to the Duchess of Kent. Afterwards she was appointed 
an extra bedchamber-woman to the Qneen. None of those who saw 
her remains committed to the dust on the 9th of March, 1876, will ever 
forget the solemn ceremony, dignified by the presence of royalty. But 
there are hearts in the poorest districts of London which have been 
solaced in their poverty and infirmity by Lady Augusta Stanley, and 
these hearts are her living monument. The Times said well in de- 
scribing her, that she was the ** kindly lady whose name is graven on 
the hearts of rich and poor." 


The Shadow on the Wall. 



Author op "A Sono ix The Twilight," and '^KathleeVs Revekgs.' 

Part II. — concluded. 


• • . . Tet, if hoars 
By inward change be counted .... 
Tears have gone by and life completely 
changed. W. Stobt. 

Poor Eachers trouble was indeed 
a very sad one, sadder than she had 
ever imagined any trouble could be 
to her, for it was caused by the 
ruin and disgrace of one who was 
near and dear to her. Since the 
time 8he had heard from her father 
at the Priory, letters had come from 
him still more desponding and 
miserable, but he never explained 
what caused his grief. At last, 
however, the tale was told, and it 
came upon poor Sachel like a 
thunderclap; but Miss Conway 
indignantly declared she had sus- 
pected it all along. 

Since early in the preceding year, 
the music-master wrote, he had 
been quite alone. His daughter, 
his darling, his beautiful Ada, had 
left him suddenly, and without even 
writing to say why she had gone, 
whither, or with whom. He had 
searched for her everywhere, he had 
advertised in the Times y and had 
been answered with the words 
" Well, and happy," but still she 
never wrote to him, never sent, 
BAver came. But a few mouths 

ago she had returned to him 
voluntarily, a ruined disgraced, and, 
he feared, a djring woman. She had 
trusted, and had been betrayed, 
and when she had appealed to her 
lover to fulfil his pledge, and make 
her a wife before she became a 
mother, he had told her plainly 
enough, that what she was, she 
must remain — his mistress. 

The shock was too much for her. 
She had sinned terribly, but she 
was terribly punished. Her baby 
was born only to die, and as soon 
as she was able to move she re- 
turned to her father, told him her 
di8graceful story — was pitied and 

•* She is dying she says," Scot^lli 
wrote to his other daughter, ** and 
she longs to see you, Rachel, once 
more before she goes. She thinks 
if you had been living with us, that 
she never would have been tempted 
to leave her home. Will you come 
to us ? It will comfort me to have 
you near me." 

These lew lines I have quoted 
from the unhappy music-master's 
letter, ocasioned a serious mis- 
understanding, not to say an open 
rupture between Miss Conway and 
her niece. Eachel declared that 
she would go to her father. Miss 
Conway declared that she should 
not. •♦ What ! " she cried, •* would 


The Shadotv on the Wall, 


yon put yourself voluntarily in 
contact with a woman like your 
sister? you must be mad, child! 
What would the world say to me 
for allowii g you to go, and to you 
for going ? " 

"I do not care for the world,*' 
Bachel had replied hotly ; ** my 
father wants me, and I must go." 

** Choose then between him and 
me," was Miss Conway's parting 
speech, as she went out to church. 
— The letters had come on Easter 
Sunday morning — and Rachel did 
choose, and had any one who knew 
her been abroad the following morn« 
ing, they might have seen Miss 
Scott alone at the Railway station. 
Her face was very pale, for she had 
Dot slept during the night. But 
although she knew that she was 
perhaps putting a barrier which 
never could be removed between 
herself and a possible, and very 
happy future, she did not hesitatt'. 
The vision of her unhappy sister, 
crushed with shame and misery, 
and of her father broken in health 
and spirit, and longing for her, 
was too much fcir her, and she de- 
cided that her duty was to go to 
him, let the consequences be what 
they might. 

Of course Vaughan paid Miss 
Hussel an absurdly early visit 
on Easter Monday morning. He 
walked in unannounced, and hear- 
ing voices in the drawing-room he 
hoped he was going to Und Rachel ; 
but when he went in he found 
instead. Miss Conway. She, poor 
woman had evidently been weeping 
oopiounly, and Harry immediately 
came to the conclusion that Rachel 
must be very ill, dying in fact I 

" What has happened?" he said, 
without pausins: to think whether 
or not his question was intrusive. 

Miss Russel made him a warning 
sign, but Miss Conway saw it, and 
at once addressed him. She knew 
him but slightly, as I have before 
iaidy still, as he appeared to be 

on such friendly terms at The 
Lodge, he might hear her grievance. 

" I came to 8pi»ak to Miss Russel 
about my niece, Mr. Vaughan," she 
said, and her voice was very cold, 
and hard, Harry thought ; '* she has 
thought fit to leave my protection, 
and I can never see, or speak to her 

Mi^s Russel saw the expression 
which came over Vaughan's face at 
the words ** my protection,*' and she 
hastened to explain. "Miss Scott 
has gone to her father, to London ; 
he is ill, and she thought she ought 
to be with him. Her aunt refused 
to let her go, but she went notwith- 
standing, by the early train this 

** Went alone ? '* cried Vaughan. 

**Yes, alone, and with a very 
small bag too,*' replied poor Miss 
Conway, as though the small amount 
of luggage her niece had carried 
was an additional grievance. " But 
I mean to send all her things after 
her, the ungrateful girl. I have 
done with her ; she will end like her 
sister I suppose *' 

'* Oh, pray hush ! ** cried Miss 
Russel, ** you should not say such 
things ; you would not say them 
if you were not angry. Shall I go 
to London myself and see Rachel? 
and if I can persuade her to come 
back with me, you will not refuse 
to receive her ? I know you will 

And then Miss Conway burst out 
crying again, and having tied on a 
very thick veil to hide her flushed 
and tearful face she went away. 

" Now tell me all about this 
mystery,*' exclaimed Vaughan, 
whose impatience had been kept 
under only by a violent effort. 

And Miss Russel told him, not 
even keeping back the part that 
Rachel's sister had returned to her 
home a degraded woman. 

*' And she is in the same house 
with Rachel now," he said, with 
vehement emphasis on the pronoun. 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


"Yes," replied Miss Bassel, watch- 
ing: the youDg man*8 face iDtently. 
**0h, Harry," she added, laying 
her hand appealingly upon his arm, 
'' would it not have been better for 
you to have taken my advice ? " 

" No,'* he returned, emphatically, 
"it would not have been better. 
It would make no difference in my 
love for Bachel had she fifty dis- 
graced sisters, instead of only one, 
and I honour her more than I can 
say for having gone to her father in 
his trouble as she has done ; it 
shows how nobly unselfish she is. 
You are going to London, are you 
not?*' the impetuous young man 
continued. " I shall nsk for a few 
days' leave, and go with you, I can- 
not endure this suspense any longer. 
I have no reason to believe that she 
cares for me, but I mean to ask her 
to be my wife, and if she consents, 
let me see who will dare to say a dis- 
paraging word of her !" He strode 
up and down the room furiously 
while he was speaking, as if the 
people who might venture to say a 
disparaging word of his idol were at 
hand to be fallen upon. 

" And if she does not care for 
you?" Miss Eussel ventured to 

Yaughan halted suddenly, and a 
sad troubled expression came into 
his bright blue eyes. **If she 
doesn't," he said, " I shall sell out, 
and go off to Australia. I told you 
months ago, Mi^ss Bussel, that 
Bachel was dearer to me than any- 
thing in the world, but I did not 
know then what my power of loving 
was. I tell you now that her 
refusal to be my wife would 
cause such utter blank misery 
to me, that I do not like to think of 
my future without her. I dare 
say you think I am an awful fool," 
he added with a weak attempt to 
smile, *' and I suppose I am, but I 
can't help it. If you had ever 
known what it " 

'* I do not think you are a fool," 

she interrupted, before he could 
finish, ^'and I hope you will 
succeed, and be happy, both of you, 
as I wish you to be. And now tell 
me your plans. I shall go to town 
this afternoon. I suppose you 
could not be ready to come with 

" Hardly ; there is my leave you 

see ; but I'll follow you as soon as 

I can get away — by the night mail 

perhaps. Let me have your address, 

. please." 

He was quite calm then, and no 
one would have imagined, who had 
seen him walking back to the 
barracks, that he had been conduct- 
ing himself in a very wild and 
irrational manner not half an 
hour before. But how few of us 
carry our hearts upon our sleeves. 
And how can we tell in what antics 
any of the sober commonplace- 
looking people whom we pass during 
our walks abroad, may have been 
indulging in the bosom of their 
families p 

That young lady who is " smiling 
in scorn," or " smiling in jest," as 
we tell her what a very lovely day it 
is, may be mourning in secret over 
the desertion of a fickle lover, and 
that young man who passes us 
blythly whistling " Slap Bang " or 
** John Brown " may have a forged 
cheque in his pocketbook, the dis- 
covery of which will bring him to 
ruin, and the grey hairs of his 
father with sorrow to the grave. I 
do not believe that a secret remorse 
is always dogging the footsteps of 
sin, and making life a burden. It is 
only your chicken-hearted sinners 
who have any conscience to trouble 
them. In nine case out of ten, 
people who have committed great 
crimes never realize to tbemselve the 
enormity of their guilt. 

Luigi Scotelli, professor of 
music, had a small house out 
Brompton way, in a retired street, 
not far from the site of the Inter- 
national Exhibition of 1862. He 


The Shadow on the Wall, 


was able from that quarter to reach 
his daily work per omnibus or under- 
ground. It was a small house, aud 
the furniture in it was old and 
shabby. But before the unhappy 
girl who had been its mistress had 
lelt it for the shelter of a more 
splendid, if less honest, home, it had 
been her pride to keep it as fresh and 
bright as possible. When she went 
away there was no one to open a 
window, or draw down a blind, no 
one to arrange the shabby furniture 
to the best ad vantage in the 
little drawing-room where Scotelli 
attended to the few pupils who 
came to him for their lessons. No 
one to see that the mean little 
parlour, with the worn haircloth 
sofa, and the equally worn haircloth 
chairs, in which Scotelli lived, and 
smoked his everlasting pipe, and 
drank his weak beer, was swept or 
dusted from week's end to week's 

In the drawing-room aforcsnii^ 
upon the day following her arrival 

ftom W , Rachel was sitting 

quite alone. Site had been with 
ner sister, who was far too weak 
and ill to leave her room ; but the 
unhappy girl, soothed by the un- 
wonted presence and kind care of 
a tender woman, had fallen asleep, 
and Bachel had come downstairs 
to try and give the room in which 
she would now have to spend so 
much of her time, some appearance 
of home. 

But it was very hard, the maid 
had lighted a fire which had burned 
furiously, and had made the small 
chamber feel exactly like an oven, 
but the hearth was uuswept, and 
the glaring March sun was streaming 
through the front window in which 
the stained yellow linen blind had 
been drawn up crookedly to the 
very top. Bachel, who was, like the 
majority of women, fond of subdued 
light, threw up the sash, and pulled 
down the blind, but a strong 
east wind, which is the invariable 

companion of glaring sun in March, 
rushed in and blew the ashes and 
the blacks all about, so that window 
had to be shut, and the opposite 
window opened, and then Bachel 
with her handkerchief dusted the 
piano, and the round table, upon 
which there was a photographic 
album, a monthly part of " The 
London Journal " long out of date, 
a copy of " Tupper's Proverbial 
Philosophy," a Church Service in 
shabby velvet binding, and an opera 
glass. Then she straightened the 
chimney ornaments, which were a 
clock, under a glass shade, with the 
hands stationary at a quarter to one 
— they had been so for months — 
and a pair of Bohemian glass candle- 
sticks with dusty artificial holly 
leaves and berries around the 
sockets, and with crystal pendants 
which clanged and jangled as if 
angry at being touched. 

When she had done all she could, 
she wished for some flowers, and as 
they, like many other things, would 
not come for wishing, she sat down 
to rest, and to think. It was not 
easy to her to do either, for her 
thoughts were in a whirl. She had 
scarcely yet begun to realize her 
position; to feel how completely 
and suddenly her life had changed ; 
although little more than twenty- 
four hours had passed since she left 

W she felt as if it were months 

since she had been there. Her 
remembrance even of the peoplo 
whom she knew best grew horribly 
yague and indistinct, and a sick 
longing came suddenly over her to 
know what they were all doing at 
that moment. I wonder if she had 
been asked to individualize, what 
she would have said P 

But she did not regret having 
come to that dreary, stuflfy little 
house ; the joy of her poor father's 
face when he saw her, had been very 
pleasant to her after her lonely 
journey, and the comfort her sister 
derived from her presence was uu- 


The Sluidow on the Wall. 


mistakable. It hai not by any 
means come home to Bacbel properly, 
or with any force, that the poor 
girl whose greeting to her had been 
a deep blush, and a violent bnrst of 
weeping, had been guilty of that 
special sin which, as society is at 
present constituted, at once and 
for ever cuts off a woman from the 
virtuous of her pex, and she actually 
found herself looking, as it were, for 
some brand which would henceforth 
point out theerring girl as an outcast. 

Of course she could see no such 
brand, and she felt nothing what- 
ever of that inward repulsion when 
in her sister's company, which we 
are told we ought to feel when we 
come into close contact with sin 
and shame. I think the Puritan 
inhabitants of that New England 
town about whom Hawthorn writes 
in that strangest and quaintest of 
his strange quaint tales, were right 
to mark their fallen sister with a 
scarlet letter upon her breast — there 
wasin Hester Prynne herself nothing 
to call forth the righteous scorn of 
her townspeople. 

Bachel could not bring herself to 
believe that the pale creature who 
looked so pretty and so fragile, and 
who was so silent, and apparently 
so resigned, could be as she had 
called herself in her first passionate 
outburst of shame and grief, unfit 
to receive her sister's pure embrace. 

They had felt much more at ease 
with each other that second morning. 
Poor Ada could not speak of her- 
self to Bachel. She alluded vaguely 
to the past year of her life, as a 
year to be atoned for if she lived, 
but one which never could be wiped 
out or forgotten ; but she could not 
tell the tale of her temptation, and 
her fall, and her discovery that the 
man who had vowed such vows, and 
whom she had loved with all her 
heart, and bad trusted as woman 
alone can trust, was worthless, to 
that fair young sister, as she could 
have told it to an utter stranger. 

She could not explain to that in- 
experienced girl, that although all 
trust in her betrayer had vanished, 
love for him was strong as ever; 
she could not confess the wild mad 
longing she had sometimes to see 
him just once more, nor could she 
explain the dull blank feeling of 
despair that crept over her when 
she thought of the honest, respect- 
able, loveless life she had now before 

So, while thoughts that her tongue 
could not venture to utter were 
whirling through her brain, she 
talked to Bachel about her father, 
about little petty household matters, 

and questioned her about W 

and was apparently pleased to bear 
all that her sister could, or rather 
all that she chose to tell, of her life 
in the old Cathedral town, and then, 
tired by the unusual exertion, Ada 
fell asleep, and Bachel, as I have 
already described, went downstairs 
to try and make the drawing-room 
look like home. 

But when she at length sat down 
very tired, and yet anxious to think 
over, and to realize her position, 
she was clearly conscious only 
of a strong desire to wash her 
bands; but still the effort to go 
upstairs again was too much, so 
she sat on ; and presently she 
fell into a state which was half 
sleep, half reverie, and her thoughts 

wandered away drearily to W , 

and the prominent figure in them 
was a tall young man with fair 
curly hair and blue eyes, eyes that 
had often told her a sweet tale to 
which she would not allow herself 
to listen. Ah ! should she ever 
have the chanee of listening to it 
again ? Never — never — never ! 
Some distant street cry seemed to 
say the word, and just then the 
door opened, and the next moment 
she was cpjing, partly with plea- 
sure, and partly with excitement 
and surprise, in Miss Bussel's 


The Shadow on the W(tlh 


But I do not know, after the 
first few seconds were over, why 
she should have turned an eager 
look towards the door, as if expect- 
ing to see some other person enter ! 
But no one appeared, so she led 
Miss Bussel to the sofa, and sat 
down very close beside her, and 
held her hand tightly. '' It was so 
kind of you to come," she said, 
'* so very kind, and so like you; 
but somehow I was so surprised 
when I saw you. Tell me, was 
Aunt Conway very angry ?*' 

She asked the question lightly ; 
but she turned a shade paler when 
she heard that her aunt would not 
receive her again, if she did not at 
once go back. "She is quite 
serious in the resolve," Miss 
Bussel explained, '* so I thought it 
better to come and tell you myself. 
You must decide at once, and pray, 
my dear child, consider well what 
you are about to do. I would not 
for the world urge you to do what 
you teel to be wrong, but the ques- 
tion is, ought you to sacrifice your- 

" You know I had no intention 
of staying here always when I left 

W ," Bachel began ; " niy father 

wished to see me, and it was only 
kind to come to him for a while." 

** But the while must be for ever 
if you do not come back with me." 
And then, seeing that the girl 
shook her head, she added, *' Again 
I must ank you to thiuk of the 
eacrificey Bachel. I do not wish 
to pain you, dear, but when your 
sister's story comes to be known, 
as you may be sure it will before 
long, thiuk how it may affect you 
to be with her, sharing her home 
— seen with her — and " 

"Even so," interrupted Rachel 
in a very low, steady voice, " but 
I cannot go ; it would be selfish 
and cruel of me to leave papa and 
poor Ada now. I suppose she has 
been very wicked, but I do not feel 
that to be with her can reallv do 



me any harm, and if you do not 
throw me off, dear Granny, I do 
not care much who does." 

Miss Busnel stooped down and ten- 
derly kissed the girls quivering lips. 

** There are other reasons why I 
could not go back, perhaps ever 
again, even if Aunt Conway would 
allow me," Bachel contiuutd after 
a pause. *' Ada is at present very 
weak, but she says she thinks she 
is getting better, and that when 
she is quite well and strong again, 
she must try and earn her living as 
she used to do before she went 
away, and I fancy she means to 
leave London, and then, you know, 
poor papa would be quite aloue, so 
that I must stay with him." 

'* He was alone before, dear, you 

" Yes, but I did not know it, and 
he says he was so miserable ; and 
then, too, I could help him.'' 
Help him, Bachel?" 
Yes, you know I can sing 
better than Ada, and I am sure I 
could teach ; at least, I might begin 
with pupils for papa." 

" My dear child," cried Miss 
Bussel, and she thought of Vaughan, 
'* this is perfect madness ! do you 
know you might lose some — 
some very happy prospect in life 
by cutting yourself off in this way 
from your old friends and com- 
panions ?*' 

" I suppose so," replied Bachel, 
with a little sigh, as she, too, 
remembered Vaughan ; " but I can- 
not help it. Aunt Conway has 
been very, very kind to me, and 
I shall never forget her; but after 
all my father is nearer to me, and 
he is not so strong as he used to 
be, and ho works harder than is 
good for him " her voice be- 
gan to fail, a vision of what might 
be had stolen up before her un- 
awares; an alluring vision of a 
bright, happy life, spent with one 
who had, she knew now, become 
dangerously dear, seemed to pass 


Tlie Sfuidow on tlie Wail. 


before her like a swift panorama, 
and she covered her face as though 
to shut it out. 

''I wish jou would not talk to 
me about it any more," she said, as 
soon as she could command her 
voice, and the effort she made to 
appear indifferent gave a pettish- 
ness to her tones very foreign to 
them. '*! am sure I am aoing 
right, and I could not expect to 

live happily at W , dressed 

out in white muslin all my life. I 
was very busy dusting and arrang- 
ing this room just before you came 
in," she continued, resolving 
to change the subject, and not 
knowing very well what other to 
begin, " and how I longed for some 
flowers! Everything has such a 
bare look. Even some of the Lent 
roses at the dear old Lodge would 
be a treat now." 

** I wish I had thought of bring- 
ing you up a bunch," replied Miss 
Busse], " but I came away in a 
great hurry. Is there any gardeu 
here ?" 

" Here ! " and BachePs shoulders 
went up in unmistakable disgust. 
" Don't speak to me of the look- 
out from the back windows ! I 
wonder how people can live in such 
a place." She forgot that she had 
just resolved to live in such a place 

Then Miss Bussel asked about her 
father ; if he was out much ; if he had 
many pupils at his own house, and 
so on ; but, as if by tacit consent, 

all mention of W and of its 

inhabitants was avoided, although 
Bachel was fairly longicg to ask if 
Yaughan knew of her departure, 
and what he had said. 

But at last she was alone again, 
and there had not been even inci- 
dental mention of the man whose 
bright face, and genial pleasant 
manner were so constantly before 
her. Miss Bussel had not been 
very long gone, when Ada woke 
in an excited and feverish state, 

and poor Bachel had to wait until 
her father came home, tired and 
hungry, to know what was to be 
done, and the doctor was sent for, 
and prescribed quiet and a sleeping 
draught, and then she and her 
father sat down to a rather meagre 
and ill-dressed dinner, which the 
music-master ate hungrily and in 
silence, and which Bachel could 
not eat at all. Then he got his 
pipe and his mug of beer, and a . 
penny paper of eight pages, and 
Bachel went up to her sister*s> 
room, and sat in the window with 
her hands clasped before her, looking 
out, but not seeing anything. Her 
thoughts were far away in the old 
cathedral town she had lefb so 
lately, and she was thinking that 
on that particular evening there 
was a dinner at the palace, to 
which some of the officers of the 
garrison were always invited, and 
she wondered who Yaughan would 
tnke in to dinner, or whether he 
would be one of the evening guestra, 
as she herself would have been, if 
only — but what was the use of 
saying, if only? she would pro- 
bably never put on a pretty dresK, 
or go out to a party again ; and then 
Ada began to moan, and mutter 
broken words in her restless sleep, 
and the spring twilight faded 
rapidly, and darkness came on, 
and the stars began to twinkle 
brightly in the clear blue sky, and 
poor lonely little Bachel shuddered 
and shivered, half with cold, and 
half with fright, at the strangeness 
and stillness around her, a stillness 
broken only by the incoherent mur- 
murs of the unhappy woman who 
lay unconscious upon her bed. 


And what am I to yoa ? A steady hand 
To hold, a steadfast heart to trust withal. 

Merely a man that loves yon, and will stand 
By you, whate'er befall. 

Jean Ingelow. 

" Plfase, Miss, a gcntlemtin. It d 


The Shadow on the WaU. 


flowers from somewhere, I think, 

The speaker was the maid of all 
work in the humble household of 
the Scotelli's. " Miss,'* was of 
course Bachel, who was sitting 
bj her sister's bedside, listless and 
weary, after a sleepless night. 

'' Oh ! from Miss Russel, I sup- 
pose," she said, and expecting to 
nnd that the '* gentleman " was that 
lady's respectaole man-servant, she 
ran quickly downstairs, her friend's 
thoughtful kindness having brought 
a bright glow of pleasure to her 

*'In the parlour, please. Miss," 
was the maid's comment, as she 
disappeared down the kitchen stairs, 
and to the parlour Bachel went, 
and there, awaiting her with an 
eager, anxious expression upon his 
face, was Harry Yaughan! He 
held an immense bunch of exquisite 
hot-house flowers ; there were waxy 
camellias peeping from among their 
dark, glossy green leaves, and starry 
cinerareas, with delicate ferns for 
foliage ! Bachel took in their bright- 
ness and beauty at a glance, and 
felt, although she was not conscious 
of feeling the contrast they pre- 
sented to the mean-looking little 
room, with its shabby carpet, the 
table, with its faded and beer-stained 
crimson cloth, and the thin and 
dust-laden curtains in the window. 

She stood holding the door-handle, 
making no attempt to come into t}^e 
room, and looking from Yaughan 
to the flowers in genuine astonish- 
ment. " I did not know who was 
bere," she stammered. " O what 
lovely flowers!" Then she came 
in and shut the door. 

*' Miss Bussel told me you were 
wishing for some," he said, giving 
them into her outstretched hand. 
It never seemed to occur to her to 
shake hands with her unexpected 

" Oh, how kind of you ! they are 
beautiful, I never saw such colours." 

Then becoming suddenly aware that 
Yaughan was not in W , but 
standing before her in her father's 
shabby little parlour, she added, " I 
did not know you were in town, 
when did you come ? — will you not 
sit down P" 

" I came up yesterday," he re- 
turned, not heeding her invitation, 
*^ and I have not very long to stay. 
I came up to see you. Oh, Bachel," 
and in spite of the flowers, he got 
hold of one of her hands — " dear, 
dearest Bachel, don't you know 
what I have come for, and will 
you not say that you are glad to 
see me ? " 

She looked up at him, startled 
by the fervour of his voice, but the 
fervour of his glance was more 
startling still. He did not wait for 
an answer, but went on rapidly, 

** Had you stayed in W , Bachel, 

I might have gone on for a while 
without telling you what I have 
come to tell you to-day. But I 
must speak now. Bachel, I love 
you very dearly, far more dearly 
than I could ever tell you, and I 
want you to be my wife." 

The sweet, earnest voice, speaking 
those honest words, thrilled to her 
very heart, but still she looked down 
and was silent. 

'' I have no reason to think that 
you care for me, dear," he continued, 
after waiting in vain for a response, 
"but still you have always been 
kind, and perhaps, if you only like 
me a little now, you might come to 
love me by-and-by. I would do 
anything in the world to win your 
love. Oh, Bachel, do not refuse 
me. I will make you so happy, my 
darling love." 

He neld out his arms as though 
he would have taken her to his 
heart, but she shrank] back, mur- 
muring in a scarcely audible voice, 
** I cannot— I cannot ; why did you 
come — it was easier before." 

"What was easier? You are 
hiding something, Bachel ; you have 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


Bome reason for refusing me, if in- 
deed you do refuse me. Perhaps 
you fchink because I am not clever 
at telling you all I feel for you, 
that I do not love you enough. Be 
my wife, Bachel, darling, and you 
shall see what love is. I could 
never tell you what you are to me." 

** I do not doubt your love," she 
said, more steadily, ** and I thank 
you for it with all my heart — but I 
cannot be your wife." 

"Oh Hachel ! you do not really mean 
it ! " he said, with such anguish in 
his voice, that she longed to throw 
her arms around his neck, and tell 
him that if she was dear to him, he 
was doubly dear to her. " You are 
trying me; you cannot mean to 
send me away without some hope. 
Listen," he continued, with a rapid 
change of tone, *^ I shall stay here 
in this spot, until you consent, un- 
less you tell me plainly that you do 
not love me; but you will not tell 
me that, will you, darling ? " he 
added, caressingly. " You do like 
me a little ; look up and tell me that 
you have given me just one little 
corner of your heart, and I shall be 
satisfied for the present." He stop- 
ped, watching her troubled face, 
with an eager questioning gaze. 

It was a sore temptation to the 

poor girL On the one bid^ was her 

idea of duty to lier father, and a 

sincere belief, that as the sister of a 

dishonoured woman, she was shut 

out for ever from the world in which 

she had lived. On the other was her 

deep, true love for the man who was 

standing before her, pleading his 

own love, and asking her to be his 

wife. Yes, the temptation was 

terribly strong, but she would not 

yield. She believed that Yaughan 

was ignorant of Ada's story, and 

would it not, she thought, be d'S- 

hunourable of her to accept him 

without telling him the truth. And 

then, supposing that his affection 

was at the first strong enough to 

set that barrier aaide, might he not 

by-and-bye, when the first ardour 
of his love was over, regret his 
choice, remembering what his wife's 
sister was ? 

It was but the work of a moment 
for these thoughts to flash through 
her mind, and then her decision 
was taken. She must send him 
away, though her own heart brake 
in the effort. He would forget her 
presently (she could never forget 
him), and be happy with some one 
else— Julia Fairfax perhaps— -even in 
the midst of her struggle, a vision 
of Harry's flirtation with the fair 
Julia rose jealously before her. So 
with a great gulp to subdue the 
emotion which she feared would 
master her if she were not very 
quick, she said, and her voice was 
so unnaturally hard, and cold, she 
scarcely knew it herself — "I can 
never forget the honour you have 
done me, Mr. Yaughan, but I do 
noi " 

Bachel did not get time to have 
the sin of a downright falsehood 
upon her conscience. Harry inter- 
rupted her before she couM- finish 
her sentence, and the alteration in 
his voice was again so marked, that 
tears of real pain sprang into £a- 
ohel's eyes, and her resolution 
almost failed her. ''Stop," he 
exclaimed, '' that will do, I am quite 
satisfied ; you do not care for me, 
or you could not speak of the hon- 
our I have done you in that cool, 
measured way. Honour be — I 
beg your pardon — I do not know 
what I am saying I believe. I 
must not blame yov, I suppose, be- 
cauHo I have beeu awakened from a 
happy dream. Oood-bye, Miss 
Scott, I have taken up your time in 
a mo>t unconscionable manner." 
He took his hat from the table, 
opened the parlour door, opened 
the hall door, and was gone before 
she had time to notice that he did 
not even take her hand in farewell. 

Tiieu she flung the beautiful flow- 
ers, which she had held all through 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


the interWew, to the grouod, and 
sprang to the window to get a last 
look at him, but he had been too 
^uick» and she was not blessed even 
bythesightof hisvanishiagcoat-tails. 

^' Gone," was all she said, but the 
-expression on her face was blank 
and mournful, and sitting down 
upon the ground, just where she 
was, she leaned her arms upon the 
seat of the chair, which always 
«tood in the window, and wished 
she could fall asleep then and there, 
and forget for ever the scene that 
had just ended. 

But she was painfully, thoroughly 
awake, and Vaughan's words, " Don't 
you know what I hare come for ; 
will you not say that you are glad 
to see me ? " were ringing in her 
-ears — they had set themselves to a 
Icind of chant, and she heard them 
repeated over and over again in 
that sweet thrilling voice. And 
then his other words ! He had called 
her his '* darling," and his ** dear, 
dearest Rachel I " Once before 
these same endearments had been 
fised to her with her name, and she 
bad not liked them ; but when spo- 
ken by Yaughan, she had thought 
no music could have been sweeter. 

And it was all over now; she 
could never, never hear him speak 
sui'h words again. He would go 

back to W and marry Julia 

Fairfax, and she must live on in 
that dingy house. Oh, how she 
hated it at that moment, especially 
how she hated a round splash of 
^;rease upon the carpet which she 
hisd noticed for the first time close 
to her feet while Harry was speak- 
ing, and which she should never be 
able to look at now, without think- 
ing of him, that is if there were ever 
a moment in her life when she was 
sot thinking of him. Yes, she must 
live on there with her father, and 
poor Ada, and perhaps she might 
flee him sometimes in the Park, or 
in the street, with his wife of course, 
and he would never know who was 

watching him, and • Oh, dear, 

how that sun did glare in on her, 
and how dreary, and dusty every- 
thing looked. 

She then got up from the hard 
floor, and picked up her beautiful 
flowers, and I fear she was guilty 
of the insane folly of kissing them, 
and her first thought was to take 
them to her own room, and not to 
let any one see them but herself ; 
but the next moment she was call- 
ing herself a selfish little wretch, 
and away she ran upstairs to her 
sister, going very fast indeed, as 
though she were afraid of being 
tempted to selfishness again. 

'* Look Ada, dear," she said in 
a cheery voice as she opened the 
door, '* look what a lovely bouquet 
I have brought you." And Ada 
stretched out her hands and took 
the flowers, and smelt them, and 
fondled them', and poor Bachel had 
to stand by, and see her do it. 

She was a brave little thing that 
girl of nineteen, who had been more 
or less petted and made much of 
during her short life, for she seemed 
to have resolutely turned her back 
upon all that had made life pleasant, 
and to hiive suddenly laid aside all 
her little girlish follies and vanities, 
and to live wholly for others. But 
for all her bravery she had a sore 
heart throughout that long weary 
day, long, because Yaughan had 
been an early visitor. 

No one suspected, however, with 
what a crushed spirit she went 
about her self-imposed tasks. Her 
father came home about one o'clock 
with a bad headache, and he had 
flrst to be attended to. Then poor 
Ada was constantly relapsing into 
the low feverish state which was so 
trying, and Bachel ran about, up 
and downstairs, aud made warm 
drinks, and cold drinks, and 
apologized to pupils who came 
for their lesson:^, and she wrote 
notes to other pupils, and at length 
when she sat down to rest a Utile, 


The Shadow on the WM. 


a railway van drove ap with all her 

luggage from "W , which Miss 

Conway had sternly, and unre- 
lentingly packed up and sent after 
her, and Bachel hated herself for 
feeling glad when she opened a box, 
and took out a fresh cool print 
dress to replace the black silk in 
which she had travelled, and which 
had got crumpled, and dusty, and 
felt hot. 

She thought it was so heartless 
of her to care about seeing all her 
dresseSy and her little ornaments, 
and her pretty writing-case, a gift 
from Miss Bussel, and her work- 
box again. But the pleasure did 
not last long. On opening the 
work-box, an engagement card 
which she had had at a little dancing 

party in "W fell out, and ou 

taking it up she found Yaughan's 
name scribbled xipon it half a 
dozen times in Yaughan's own 
writing, and she remembered several 
little things which had happened 
on that particularly happy even- 
ing, and several little words that 
had been whispered in the pauses 
of [the dance. It was too much 
— the contrast between then and 
now — a sudden sense of desolation 
and wretchedness came over her, 
and she kissed the card, as she had 
kissed the flowers, and shed the 
first tears she bad shed that day. 

It was very foolish of course, to 
weep over a piece of ornamental 
cardboard, but she was very young, 
and very fond of the man whose 
name was scribbled thereon. 

When she had at last seen her 
sister settled for the night, and had 
laid down herself upon a little bed 
in the same room, to be ready for a 
call, she determined to indulge her- 
self as much as she pleased by 
thinking over what had happened 
that morning, but she was very 
tired, both in mind and body, so 
she fell asleep almost immediately, 
and dreamed— oh such delicious 
dreams, from which her waking 

came all too soon. The following 
day she had another early visitor. 
Miss Bussel, who was about to re- 
turn to W in the afternoon,. 

came to say good-bye. She had 
not seen nor heard from Yaughan 
since he had left her to go to 
Bachel the day before, and she sus- 
pected that the young man's wooing 
had not prospered. The fint glance 
at Bachel's face confirmed her in 
this belief. But she was not left 
long in suspense, for the girl told 
her in a few words what had 
passed ; at least she gave Miss Bussel 
to understand that Yaughan had 
proposed to her, and that she had 
refused him. But she did not, we 
may be sure repeat the words he 
had spoken. 

"And may I ask," said Miss 
Bussel, almost severely, '* why you 
refused him? Surely it was not 
from coquetry, for I think you are 
incapable of trifling with a man 'a 
feelings in that way, and I am sure 
you care for him." 

** He thinks I do not,*' returned 
Ifechel, with an averted face. " Oh, 
granny ! I let him think so. How 
could I marry him? Bemember 
poor Ada. Think of " 

" I think you have behaved 
very badly," interrupted Miss 
Bussel, with an amount of 
asperity in her voice and manner 
which Bachel had never heard 
before ; but her sympathies were 
all with the rejected lover at the 
moment ; then, seeing the tears in 
BacheFs beautiful eyes, she relented 
a little, and added," There, don't cry^ 
dear; I believe I spoke crossly, and I 
am sure you did what you thought 
right, but I should have been so 
pleased to see him happy ; he is a 
noble young fellow." 

" Ah ! " said Bachel," if you knew 
how noble 1 and he thmks I am a 
block of marble, I know he does." 

" He probably thinks you are in 
love with that Mr. Fairfax," replied 
Miss Bussel, with a slight return 


The Shadow an the Wall. 


to severitj, ^'and if he does, it 
cannot be helped. I cannot make 
the slightest move in the matter. 
Indeed I do not see how I could. 
Young ladies do not generally let 
men know that they are sorry for 
having said * No ' — perhaps you are 
not sorry ? However, you have 
made your choice, and you must 
abide by it." 

" I know it, I am ready to do 
00,'* answered poor Bachel, sor- 
rowfully ; for now that Miss 
Bussel had so sternly declared her 
intention of not interfering, she 
knew she had been looking forward 
to her mediation to undo that which 
she was ready to affirm she was 
not sorry for having done. " I 
know ity*' she repeated ; ** if you had 
said you were going to speak to 
Mr. Yaughan I must have asked 
jon not to do so — but won't you — " 
and she took Miss Bussel's hand 
imploringly — "won't you sometimes 
4eli me how he is ? " 

" Oh, yes, I shall tell you ail I hear 
i^bout him with pleasure; but you do 
not expect to hear, I suppose, that he 
18 pining away on your account ? " 
— ^1 think Bachel did expect to hear 
news of that nature concerning 
kim — " because I am sure he wiU 
have the good sense to forget all 
.about you as soon as possible. I dare 
aay we shall hear of his marriage 
to some one before six months." 
Miss Bussel had not much faith 
evidently In the constancy of man 
— •• Miss Fairfax, perhaps — she will 
not refuse him." 

" Oh, I hope he will not marry 
Jker^** cried Bachel, almost spite- 
fully. She could not have given 
4mv good reason for not wishing 
Miss Fairfax to become Mrs. 
Henry Yaughan, but then Harry 
had flirted before her face with 
•Julia, so that a marriage with her 
was a possibility, while all other 
** somebodies " were vague unreali- 
ties. We are always more jealous 
of the rivals whom we have seen, 

than of the rivals we have only 
heard of. 

" I think she would make a 
charming wife for him," replied 
Miss Bussel, taking up her muff, 
"very suitable in every way, and 
now I must go." 

They kissed one another, but it 
was a cold embrace, and poor 
Bachel felt that all the joys of her 
life were going out very quickly, 
one after another. But before Miss 
Bussel had reached the hall her 
heart smote her, and she felt that 
she had been unkind to her 
favourite, so running back to the 
little drawing-room, she had Bachel 
in her arms before that young ladv 
had time to dry the tears which 
were falling very fast, in spite of 
heroic efforts to keep them back. 

*' Ood bless you, my brave child," 
were the comforting words Miss 
Bussel said ; *' you have acted 
nobly, and unselfishly, and you 
must not mind my crossness ; 
good-bye, and write to me very 

And so they parted again, and 
Bachel felt that the world was not 
quite so dark as it had seemed 
when her kind old friend's frown 
had been added to her other woes ; 
and although she knew that Miss 
Bussel would not mediate between 
Yaughan and herself, still the pros- 
pect of that marriage between him 
and Miss Fairfax did not seem 
quite so certain as it had done five 
minutes before. 


And tliere folloirB »miBt and » blinding nin, 
And life ii never the lame again. 

Q. MoDovAKD. 

Fbom that day the change in 
Bachel's life was complete. She 
knew that nothing could now 
happen to make it different to 
what it was, and it seemed to her 
one great blank. She did not 


The Shadow <m the WaU. 


allow herself to look back, the 
future she shrank from, and the 
present was made up of little 
thing?, never-ending irksome little 
duties which appeared to crowd 
upon her more and more every 
daj, and to be thrown npon her 
as a matter of course, and from 
which no one appeared to derive 
any benefit. 

She went throu|;h these duties 
with a dead, dull apathy for which 
she absolutely hated herself ; but it 
was astonishing how soon she hegan 
to run in a steady settled groove, 
out of which any change was harder 
to bear than even the miserable 
roiitine. Fortunately for herself, 
however, she had not to bear that 
great aggravation of all household 
Sis, the pressing need of money. 
Within a few days of Miss Bussel's 

return to W Bachel received 

a formal looking document con- 
taining, with an explanatory letter 
from Miss Conway's lawyer, a cheque 
for twenty-five pounds, and a similar 
sum would, she was informed, be 
forwarded to her every three 
months, by her aunt's command. 

Miss Conway was, in her own 
way, very fond of Bachel, and upon 
learning the girl's determination 
not to abandon her father, she 
decided upon giving her a hundred 
a year. Her niece's education, 
dress, amusements, &c. &c«, the old 
lady calculated had always cost 
about that sum yearly, and there- 
fore she should have it still. 

Bachel was truly grateful for the 
gift. It .enabled her to get many 
Ettle luxuries for her father and 
«i8ter, which they, especially the 
latter, needed, and she wrote to 
thank her aunt most gratefully* 
But the old lady, although she cried 
over the letter, did not answer it. 
The first and second instalments of 
her aUowance had come most 
opportunely, for Ada's feveri^th 
attacks changed to a regular low 
fever, which kept her prostrate for 

a long time, and which made her so 
weak) that but for care and nourish- 
ment she must have died. 

Bachel was a kind and attentive 
nurse. She hardly ever lefb her 
sister's bedside, except when ne- 
cessity obliged her to go out to- 
make purchases for the house.. 
Upon these expeditions she was at 
first accompanied by her father, but 
when she began to know her way,, 
and the shops, he would make ex- 
cuses for leaving her, and she soon 
grew accustomed, although she 
never liked, to go about by herself. 

How often as she set out with 
her bag, and her latch-key, dressed 
in a quiet black silk, black mantle, 
and unfashionable little bonnet,, 
under which her sweet face looked 
so pretty — perhaps a little graver, 
and more care-worn than it had 
been a few months before, but still 
exquisitely lovely, so modest looking, 
gentle and refined — how often, I say^ 
did she think of the day she had 
arrived at The Lodge, dressed in 
her white muslin, and had been re- 
proved by Miss Bussel for walking 
about by herself. 

But although on the whole 
tolerably contented with her lot, 
and resigned to her fate, there 
were days when an evil spirit almost 
as dark as that which David's 
skilful fingers charmed away from 
king Saul, troubled her sorely, and 
gave to her dark eyes an expression 
not quite pleasant to see, and a 
sharpness to her sweet voice not 
quite pleasant to hear. She would 
speak crossly to the willing and 
hard-worked servant, who would do 
almost anything for *' Miss Bachel "^ 
— she would be impatient with her 
father, feeling tempted to fling his 
pipes into the fireplace, and te 
overturn his mug of beer. She 
hated the sound of the pupils 
taking their lessons in the drawing- 
room, and would spitefully hope 
that they might get well scolded. 
She would listen in grim silence ta 


The Shadow en the Wail. 


lier sister's often expressed want?, 
And attend to them with badly 
snppreHsed impatience, and then 
perhaps she wonid catch a glimpse 
of her own face in the glass, flushed, 
and rather sour-looking, and, 
iiorrified at the sight, she would 
yash away to her own little room to 
cry bitter tears of repentance, even 
while she still longed passionately 
for her old life again. 

Poor Kachel ! Harry Yaughan 
thought she was perfection, and she 
was just as far from it as are 
the majority of women. She was 
Tery young, and life had been very 
bright and pleasant to her, aad now 
she was smarting under a sore dis- 
appointment, so we must not be too 
hard upon her, if her temper some-, 
times failed. 

■ Very many letters passed between 
her and Miss BuHsel at that time, 
and the days on which those cheer- 
ful epistles, full of small details 
about the old place, arrived were 
always red-letter days to Bacliel. 
They did not after the first, how- 
ever, contain any news of Yaughan. 
His regiment was under orders for 
Ireland, to be quartered in Dublin, 
but he had volunteered to go to 
Hythe, for musketry instruction, 
and Miss Russel had only seen him 
for a few minutes before he started, 
to say good-bye. I think this in- 
formation, coupled with the fact 
that Miss Bussel thought him 
looking thin, gave Rachel an amount 
of satisfaction, not to be accounted 
for, except by Rochefoucauld's 
cynical maxim, that '' the mis- 
fortunes of our best friends give us 

■ pleasure." 

And so weeks went on into 
months. May was past, June was 
nearly over, and Ada Scotelli was at 
last pronouncedconvalescent. When 
•she began to mend, she gained 
' strength rapidly, and her soft, but 
somewhat insipid beauty returned 
in all its former freshness. 

One lovely afternoon Rachel hired 

an open carriage, and took her 
for a drive in the Park. Ada had 
longed intensely for the treat, and 
with the genuine unselfishness of 
her nature Rachel determined to 
gratify her. Ada lay back in the 
little phaeton, wrapped in a warm 
shawl, too languid to speak much, 
but drinking m with pleasure the 
genial breeze which fanned a faint 
colour into her pale cheeks. Rachel, 
too, felt invigorated ; it was so very 
long since she had seen anything 
approacliing to brightness or gaiety, 
that she thoroughly enjoyed the 
eight of the gay dresses, and the 
groups of graceful women, who 
with their cavaliers were cantering 
up and down the ride. 

Of course she thought how enjoy- 
able a gallop there would be with 
him by her side, and equally of 
course she decided that among the 
many gentlemen within her view, 
there was not one to be compared 
to him. They had got their carriage 
drawn up as close as possible to the 
Tails at Hyde Park corner, and there 
they sat watching the ever-changing 
groups, and listening to the sounds 
of merry voices, and laughter. 
Suddenly Rachel, who was absorbed 
in her own thoughts, felt her hand 
grasped tightly, and heard her sister 
say in a hurried whisper, '* Rachel! 
Rachel, take me away. He is here, 
look, close to us. I see him." 

"Whom do you mean, dear? 
Don't be frightened," and Rachel 
. held the fluttering little hand— *' tell 
me who it is ?" 

" Oh, don't you know ?" there 
was a ring of acute mental agony in 
Ada's voice which attracted the 
attention of a gentleman, one of a 
group of three, who were standing 
talking together at the rails dose 
by. He turned, and Rachel recog- 
nized Fairfax. But his eyes went 
at once from her to her companion 
and he started forward with a deep 
flush upon his face, and even as his 
hand was upon the door of the 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


carriage, Racbel had given the order 
to drive on in a clear ringing voice, 
and Fairfax again caught her glance 
for a moment as she did so. There 
was a world of Indignation, scorn, 
and loathing in it, beneath which 
he actually cowered for an instant, 
but the next he had fallen back into 
his place, and had quietly resumed 
bis interrupted conversation. It 
was a matter of but slight import- 
ance to him now that JEUchel Scott 
at last knew him for the betrayer of 
her sister. 

Ada's eyes were closed, and 
Bachel feared that she had fainted, 
but after a while, when they were 
' driving rapidly through the 
streets towards home, she sat up 
and said, " Oh, Bachel ! did he see 

•'Yes," replied Rachel, quietly. 
" Tell me, Ada,** she added after a 
pause, *'by what name did you 
know that man? Tou remember 
I never heard any name men- 

" Villiers, ** answered Ada, 
^Reginald Villiers — why do you 

" His real name is Reginald Fair- 
fax," replied Rachel ; " he is Lord 
Wimburue's eldest son." 

'• You know him then ?" 

'* I haye that honour ! I met 
him last year at his father's place 
at W ." 

"Oh! Rachel, how bitterly you 

And that was all that passed. 
The sisters never again alluded to 
that chance meeting in the Park ; 
but that either of them could ever 
forget it was wholly impossible, and 
yet Rachel could hardly allow her- 
self to think of Fairfax. She had 
disliked and despised him thoroughly 
since the affair of the ring, but the 
conviction of which she could not 
divest herself, that he had made love 
to her, knowing that her sister was 
living with him under the name of 
Mrs. Villiers, caused her to look 

upon him with a feeling of down- 
right abhorrence. That any man 
could be so wicked, so utterly with- 
out principle, passed her comprehen- 
sion. What then would her senti- 
ments have been regarding him, had 
she known that he had actually deter- 
mined to made her his wife, while 
Ada was still living under his protec- 
tion at Richmond ? It was one of 
those cases in which ignorance is 
bliss indeed. 

From that memorable afternoon 
the position of the sisters towards 
eaoh other underwent a complete 
change. I have before explained 
the difficulty Rachel found in 
realizing the disgrace which attached 
to Ada, but from the moment she 
discovered that Fairfax was the 
roan who had wrought that disgrace, 
it came home to her in all its power. 
She could not look at Ada without 
thinking of the man who had doubt- 
less used all the fascinations of which 
he was' so subtle a master to lure 
her to her ruin. She seemed to see 
so plainly the weak points in Ada's 
character, upon which he had worked. 
She thought of his triumph when 
he had succeeded, and she found it 
very hard not to allow any tinge 
of dislike to mingle with the pity 
she felt for the unhappy girl, who 
had so loved and trusted, and been 
so cruelly betrayed. She tried to 
make excuses for her, by remember- 
ing how she had herself been deceived 
by him, but it would not do, the 
real tangible fact of Ada's shameful 
connection with the man who had so 
nearly won her own heart, remained 
ever present^ and she hated herself 
for shrinking from the kiss which 
poor Ada so often bestowed upon 
her in thanks for some slight 

And then, too, there was a 
marked alteration in Ada herself. 
That passing glimpse of FaiHax, 
handsome and captivating as he had 
ever been, shivered at a stroke the 
work of the past mouths, and 


The Shadow on the WaU. 


changed wild self-upbraidiogs into 
Tain regretSy and she felt that 
although she had voluntarily given 
up her lover when he had refused 
to make her his wife — although she 
hated him for his deception, and 
for the taunting words with which 
he had thrown her position in her 
teeth, that she still loved him for 
himself, and that life without him was 
a verj barren and worthless thing. 

And so the weeks passed on, and 
Yaughan sat upon his heel on the 
rough shingle at H/the, and learned 
many things about a rifle which he 
had never learned before, and tried 
very hard to forget a fair face, 
lighted with brilliant violet eyes; 
and Bachel lived on, enduring the 
heat of London as best she could, 
and tried very hard to forget a 
brighc honest face, with eloquent 
laughing eyes ; and Ada lived on 
beside her, yet far apart in thoughts, 
and words, and works. She was in 
perfect health now, and very unlike 
the shy, gentle girl, for whom Fair- 
fax had watched and waited in the 
Park two years before. The senti- 
ments she had learned from him, 
the books he had given her to read, 
were bearing fruit now, and she 
daily became more and more hard, 
crnical, and unwomanly. She and 
Aachel had nothing in common, and 
it was a positive relief to the latter 
when, at the end of the summer 
vacation, Ada announced that she 
had applied for, and got, the situa- 
tion of English governess in a 
•chool in Paris. 

And thither she departed in ex- 
4sel!ent spirits (she was so glad to 
escape from the hum-drum, dull 
life she led at her father's), and 
with her wardrobe replenished out 
of Bachel's purse, for the girl bad 
given her every pretty and useful 
thing she could afford, to atone to 
herself for the secret pleasure she 
felt at her departure. 

Ada never returned to England, 
and she is at present mistress of 

the school which she entered as an 
English teacher. She has grown 
very large and very handsome, and 
more than one — more than a dozen 
rich and well-to-do Frenchmen 
would be but too happy if Made- 
moiselle Scotelli would consent to 
become Madame de ■ ; but 

Mademoiselle Scotelli dismisses 
them all, and they never guess that 
she had conjugated the verb Aimer 
in all its moods and tenses, before 
she had crossed the Straits of 

And then began for Bachel and 
her father a new phase of existence, 
and a phase which the former en- 
deavoured to believe was all she 
could desire ; but in vain. It seemed 
as the days slipped by in never- 
varying monotony, that she was 
slipping with them farther and 
farther from the old friends and 
associations. Her life at dear old 

W was now almost like a 

dream, there were times when she 
could with difficulty believe that 
she had ever lived in the old cathe- 
dral city with congenial friends and 
companions around her. 

She began to read a great deal ; 
to read for her improvement as 
well as for her pleasure, and it 
was wonderful how her intellect 
expanded, and how the friendly 
pages of some pleasant volume be- 
guiled hours, which would other- 
wise have been long and dreary. 
She honestly tried not to seeany thing 
in her home but what was pleasant. 
She tried not to mind when little 
things which she looked upon simply 
as necessary elegancies and require- 
ments, and not mere affectations of 
fine ladyism, were voted irksome 
and utterly disregarded. She fought 
nobly and successfully against the 
dark spirit, which would, as I have 
8aid,have swept her father's unsightly 
pipes into the fire, and overturned 
nis mug of beer. She tried not to 
be disgusted at the smell of tobacco 
upon her dress, nor to show her 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


strong distaste to tbe companions 
witb whom she was obliged some- 
times to as:«ociate. 

She tried to forget that if her 
sister whom she had been so glad to 
see depart had remained, she might 
have made an effort to leave London, 
and to return to her old home ; but 
above all she tried not to see that 
the sacrifice she had made, and was 
still making, for her &ther was un- 
appreciated, and that there was 
another whose more obtrusive style 
of attention was fast putting her 
own into the shade. This other 
was the mistress, or *' Directress " 
as she chose to be called, of a young 
ladies' academy at Islington, where 
Scotelli attended as music-master. 
Perhaps the woman really cared 
for the rather sad and silent wi- 
dower ; perhaps she only wanted to 
have a resident music-master, but 
most certainly she made undoubted 
love to him, and Bachel felt quite 
sure would end by marrying him 

And in the event of this alliance 
taking place, what was to become of 
her ? There was a ludicrous aspect 
in that view of the affair would 
sometimes make her laugh, almost 
in spite of herself, but even as she 
laughed, her thoughts would go back 
to the home she might have had, to 
the love which had been offered, 
and rejected. 

In her letters to Miss Bussel, 
Bachel dwelt almost wholly upon 
the *' objective " side of her life. She 
wrote about the books she read, 
about the few places to which she 
went, and the still fewer objects of 
interest which surrounded her ; but 
upon the subject of her many dis- 
appointments, and her grave feara 
as to what her future might have 
in store, she was silent, and so the 
months went by until the summer 
time which brought her twenty-first 


Not by appointment do we meet ddight 
And joy — they heed not oar expectancy, 
Bat Toand some corner hi the streets of 

They on a sadden meet, and clasp as with 

a smile ! Gskald Missst. 

It was July — real summer weather ; 
cloudless skies, intense heat, and 
flowers, and brightness, and beauty 
everywhere. Miss Bussel dressed 
in a cool flowing dress of some thin, 
black material, sat at her solitary 
breakfast table, awaiting the one 
small excitement of her quiet day — 
the arrival of the post bag. 

The windows of her pretty room 
were open, and through them came 
the perfume of innumerable roses, 
pinks, sweet pea and mignonette. 
There was a vase filled with roses 
upon the breakfast table, and one 
large bloom of deep velvety crimson 
was in the bosom of Miss Bussel's 

Solitary people contract unsocial 
habits. Miss Bussel had a book be- 
side her, and she read as she ate. 
For a woman of past forty, she 
looked remarkably young. People 
•said it was because her hair was so 
handsome, and so abundant, but I 
think it was simply because she was 
the style of woman who looks twenty 
at sixteen, and twenty still at thirty, 
and because she led a peaceful 
and contented life, free from any 
tormenting little worries, or anxious 
cares, a life, which if it had no deep 
-engrossing joys, had also been sin- 
gularly exempt from many searing 

The letters at last ! They were 
late. The postman had not been 
able to walk fast that scorching 
morning. But he brought her a 
goodly budget to make up for his 
delay. There were several letters 
from lady friends, a longer epistle 
than was usual from Bachel, one or 
two invitations to croquet parties* 


Thi Shadow an the Wall. 


imd a rather thick letter in a large 
envelope, with an embossed crest 
upon the seal, which Miss Bussel 
at once recognized as that of the 

" From Harry at last,'* she said. 
*' I thought he had quite forgotten 
me." She opened the letter eagerly, 
but when her eye fell upon the 

address, The Oaks, shire, and 

when she saw that the handwriting 
was not Harry's, but still familiar, 
.she laid it down quickly, and a 
sudden rush of colour came over 
her face, betraying how greatly she 
was surprised. But it was over 
in a second, and she took up the 
-•beet to read what her old friend, 
Harry's father, had to say to her. 

*• My dear Elpanor," the letter 
began — Mr. Yaughan had never 
called her by her name before, but 
somehow it seemed quite right that 
he should so address her now. 

'* It seems the most natural thing 
in the world for me to turn to you 
for counsel in any matter of per- 
plexity, such as that at present 
troubling me." Miss Bussel smiled 
a little as she wondered to whom 
he had turned for counsel in all 
his matters of perplexity since she 
and he had been mutual friends in 

G siz-and-twenty years before. 

''You perhaps do not remember, 
but I cannot forget our Jong friend- 
riiip, and I have been beyond mea- 
sure pleased to find that you have 
extended your kindness to my boy. 
It is on his account, but not with 
his knowledge, that I now write to 
Tou. I am greatly distressed about 
him, and, indeed, at times seriously 
•nneasy, when I remember the in- 
sidious disease which deprived me 
of his dear mother just seven years 
ago.^ Harry is at home at present, 
on ' sick leave,' and I greatly fear 
that it will be months before he 
•ean rejoin his regiment, if, indeed, 
he does not becouie a confirmed in- 
valid. He came home in the spring 
completely laid up with a long- 

neglected cold, and he was for some 
weeks in great danger. Thank 
Heaven that has all past now, but 
still he does not gain either strength 
or spirits. You know how full of 
life and energy he has always been» 
and the doctors tell me that they 
fear there is something on his mind. 
He speaks so constantly, and with 
such warm regard of you, my dear 
Eleanor, that it has occurred to 
-me that perhaps you are in his con- 
fidence, and that you might be able 
to tell me what course to adopt. 
He declares that he has no debts, no 
entanglements such as young men 
sometimes get into. 

*' And now for the real, and I 
fear selfish, object of my letter. 
Will you come and pay us a visit 
here P Knowing you so well as I 
do, I have no scruple in asking you 
to stay for a while with a quiet 
steady, elderly man, and an invalid 
young one for your sole companions. 
You know, perhaps, that my young- 
est daughter was married a year 
ago. Independent of the service 
which I am sure you can render me^ 
it will give me real pleasure to re- 
ceive the oldest and kindest friend 
I have under my own roof. 

" Ever, my dear Eleanor, 
"Yours with sincere regard, 

"Hknbt Yatjqhak."^ 

You might perhaps come to some 
very erroneous conclusion respect- 
ing Miss Bussel were I to tell you 
how many times she read and 
re-read Mr. Yaughan's letter, to the 
utter neglect of her other corre- 
spondents, even of Bachel, from 
whom she had not heard for some 
time. But I think it was very 
excusable for her to be taken up 
by the unexpected pleasure of get- 
ting such a kind missive from a 
friend who had always been very 
dear to her, and whom she had not 
seen for years. It pleased her too^ 
to think that she could be of ser- 
vice to him in the matter respect- 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


ing which he had writteD. She 
fancied she had the clue to Harry's 
lowness of spirits, and quick as 
lightning all that might result from 
her visit, flashed across her — dear 
little Bachel and hU sou would 
perhaps be made happy through 
her means; and what pleasure to 
her could be greater? She was 
enchanted at the prospect of play- 
ing fairy godmother to her two 
^oung favourites, and hastily finish- 
ing her breakfast, which had grown 
quite cold, she gathered up her letters, 
and went to her writing-table to 
answer Yaughan's letter by the 
early post. 

But it was not so easy a matter 
to address him as she fancied it 
would have been. Indeed she was 
almost ashamed of the difficulty 
she found in writing just some cor- 
'dial words of thanks for his kind- 
ness in thinking she could help 
him, and then a hearty acceptance 
of his invitation. But she accom- 
plished a suitable reply at last, and 
concluded by saying that if agree- 
able to her host she would leave 
W for the Oaks on the follow- 
ing Friday, three days from that 
time. Then having despatched a 
special messenger to the post, she 
had leisure to read Bachel's news. 
Her letter was not very long, and 
it was written, Miss Bussel thought, 
in wretched spirits. The girl com- 
plained a gooa deal of the intense 
heat, which she said made her feel 
languid, and good for nothing, but 
she said not one word of the long 
evenings she spent alone, while her 
father was at the Islington Academy, 
or of her longing for a breath of 
fresh country air, and the society 
of a congenial friend. Once or 
twice before, when she had men- 
tioned her loneliness, and her 
weariness of London sights and 
sounds, Miss Bussel had responded 
by a warm invitation to The Lodge, 
which Bachel had felt it more pru- 
dent to decline. 

'' Poor child ! '* said Miss Bussel, 
as she finished, " what a life she 
leads, and how uncomplaining she 
is. Well if, as I suspect, Master 
Harry's illness is caused by this, 
as he thinks, unrequited attachment 
of his, perhaps I may be able to 
bring about a happy ending.*' 

There must have been to Miss 
Bussel something very pleasant in 
the prospect of giving pleasure to 
others, for during the next few days 
her face wore such a beaming, 
happy smile, and her step was 
so light, that she seemed to have 
returned to the days of her 

Friday came, still unclouded sun- 
shine and oppressive heat ; but Miss 
Bussel so timed her journey, that 
when the train by which she tra- 
velled reached the station, 

where the carriage from The Oaks 
was to meet her, it was evening, 
and the sun was low in the west. It 
was rather a bustling little station, 

that of , so when the train 

stopped, and Miss Bussel got out 
upon the platform, it was some time 
before she could detect any one who 
might be waiting for her. 

But presently, and quite close to 
her, she saw the person whom she 
expected to see — a tall man, and a 
man, one might say, especially at 
the first glance, in the prime of 
life ; for his fiigure, having lost very 
little of the slightness and quick- 
ness of youth, was deceptive. His 
face, too, being almost whiskerlese, 
looked young enough for forty, and 
his easy, umost jaunty carriage, 
the youthful way he had of dress- 
ing, especially of dressing his neck, 
round which there was a small soft 
scarf, loosely knotted under a low 
standing collar, combined with a 
bright, animated, and constantly 
varying expression, which redeemed 
an otherwise plain face, made him 
appear many years younger than 
he really was. 

Miss Bussel, not having been 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


seen by bim, bad leisure to note 
how time had dealt with her old 
friend, and she was positively 
startled to see what little alteration 
the years that had passed had made. 
He seemed absolutely unchanged 
from what he had been in the dear 
long past days, when he had prac- 
ticed archery with her, or sat under 
the shady tree in her aunt's pleasure 
ground, arguing in that dictatorial 
manner of his, which she remem- 
bered so well. 

" How altered I must be/' was 
her involuntary thought, as she 
saw Mr. Yaughan's eyes rest upon 
her for a moment without recogni- 
tion. Then she went forward, and 
held out her hand. ** You do not 
know me," was all she said. 

"Is this you, Eleanor?" he ex- 
claimed, seizing both her hands, 
and shaking them warmly, and he 
never was so near kissing a woman, 
without actually kissing her, be- 
fore ! '* I did not know you at 
first. I hope you are not angry ? 
Give me that cloak, and the bag ; 
now your arm, and we'll get the 
^^ggtLge. I expected to see you in 
a hat — my girls always arrive in 
hats, and somehow I never thought 
of watching a bonnet. Were you 
roasted in the train ? Only fancy, 
it was a hundred and ten degrees 
in the shade to-day I " 

If she had not recognized her 
old friend at the first glance, she 
could not have failed to recognize 
him at once in the energetic, voluble 
manner — so especially voluble on 
trifling topics, such as the weather, 
or the wearing of a hat or a bonnet. 
It was all YBTj strange ; the same, 
yet not the same, and inexpressibly 
strange to hear him talking of " my 
girls ! " 

'•How is Harry?" she asked, 
when the luggage had been found, 
and delivered over to the care of a 
boy with a donkey-cart, and she 
was seated in the pony-carriage, 
which Yaughan himself drove. 

" Just the same. This hot wea* 
ther knocks him up ; but I am sure 
he'll get better now that you have 
come. It is really so kina of you,. 
Eleanor. I shall never forget it to 
you. But you always were the 
most unselfish mortal in the 

" I do not think I have shown 
much unselfishness in this in- 
stance," she replied, smiling. *' Do 
you think it gives me no pleasure 
to see my old friends P " 

" Ah, yes ; but to come all this 
way, and to leave your own little 
box! Harry tells me that The 
Lodfi^e is perfection. He is never 
tired of talking about it. I feel quite 
jealous lest you should despise 
* The Oaks.' " 

Miss Bussel laughed, knowing 
well enough what had endeared 
her home to the young soldier. 

" If those woods I see yonder 
belong to ' The Oaks,' " she returned^ 
"you cannot have much to dread 
from my scorn. How lovely they 
are! There is no tree like the 
oak ; I always say so." 

" I love my oaks," exclaimed Mr» 
Yaughan, delighted. " I must take 
you through the woods ; there are 
some beautiful ferns, too — you're 
fond of ferns, are you not P We 
must have a long chat over the 
dear old times. Oh, Eleanor, do 
you remember those days? Do 
you know I have the old yew bow 
I used to shoot with, still P " 

" I have mine too. I was looking 
at it yesterday." 

" Have you ? What a long time 
those days seem away now. When 
I look at my mnd children — I have 
six grandchildren, Eleanor — I 
think that I must have been asleep 
for an age, like that old Rip Yan 
Winkle of Irving's ! But it is not 
fair to be talking of the fiight of the 
enemy to you, you are looking so 
well, although I did not know you. 
How do you contrive to keep so 
young ? " 


The Shadow on the WalU 


"I was going to ask you the 
same question." 

"Ob yes ! you are trying to put 
grandpapa on good terms with 
himself. Perhaps you remember, 
however, that you and he are co- 
temporaries— Is that it. Mistress 
Eleanor ? But I am afraid you will 
have the pull of me when you see 
me with my hat off. I never had 
much hair to boast of, you know 
that ; but now I shall soon have a 
gleaming skull ! Only I am afraid 
the girls would laugh, at me, I'd 
gei a wig. You always had stun- 
ning hair, Eleanor. I remember a 
pretty way you had of wearing it, 
with two long curls at tlie side, 
Just over the ear. I made my- 
Eleanor dress her hair that way 
for a while ; but she could not do 
it like you. I wonder who lives in 

my poor mother's house at C 

nuw, and at * The Laurels ' ? How 
well I remember the long straight 
road between the two places! 
Many a hundred times I have 
walked it in all weathers, day and 
uight. I could find my way aloBg 
it blindfolded ; and the old tree 
upon your aunt's lawn, with the 
seat under it. Do you remember 
it, Eleanor ? " 

Is there anything, I wonder, in the 
meeting between long-parted friends 
so trying as that oft-recurring ques- 
tion, " Do you rememher ? " It 
touches, perchance, so many chorda 
we would fain keep silent for ever. 
It wakes so many memories we 
thought we had *' prisoned down 
with a roof of stone." It brings 
back -many a scene — many a long 
past pleasure, and many a sleeping 
pain, which will haunt us for days, 
if, indeed, we ever succeed iu 
escaping from them again. 

But if Eleanor Eutjtsel felt any 
paiu at the recollections thus 
aroused, she made no sign, and 
Vaughau rattled on just as he used 
to do in the years gone by. 

Presently they came to the shade 

of the oak woods, and to the high, 
grey, ivy-covered wall which 
bounded the demesne. 

^' I am not taking you the pret- 
tiest way," Yaughan said. '' Thia 
is the road to the back lodge ; but 
it is nearer to the house than the 
front, and Harry said he would 
come down to the gate to meet 
us. I wonder if you will think him 
looking ill. By the way, I never 
told you that we have not waited 
dinner for you. I remember you 
used to like a tea dinner after a 
journey in summer, and we have 
splendid fruit. Was I right ? " 

" Quite right, thank you. How 
kind of you to remember my tastes," 
she said, more touched than she 
cared to show. ^' Stay, is that 
Harry ?" 

She had caught sight of a figure 
sitting on the bank by the road side 
opposite to the demesne walL 

'^ Tes, there he is ; the grass can't 
be damp, I suppose, this roasting 
weather. I am so afraid of his 
getting another attack upon hia 
chest. Well, here she is, you see!" 
Yaughan called out, as they reached 
the place where the young man 

Harry rose eagerly, and came to 
the carriage. He was looking thin, 
and his eyes had lost a great deal 
of their bright merry light. '* I am 
so delighted to see you ! " he said, 
squeezing Miss Bussel's hand like 
a vice. " I have been envying my 
father for having had you to himself 
all the way from the station ; but 
never mind, I can make up for it 

'* You have done him good 
already," Yaughan whispered, as 
Harry got into the back seat of 
the phaeton. "I have not seen 
him look so well for months.*' And 
then they drove on, all three talk- 
ing together. 

Miss Bussel, during the few days 
which elapsed between Yaughan's 
invitation and her departure from 


Tlie Shadow on the Wall. 


W s had often tried to picture 
to herself what her old friend's 
faome would he like. Harry's vague 
description that it was " a jolly old 
place," and that his fatbe^ made 
'^ no end of a fuss " about its being 
** kept like a haby-house," had con- 
Teyed very little impression to her 
mind. She found the house out- 
side a low red brick building, cover- 
ing a large extent of ground, and 
with peaks and gables, obimneys 
«nd windows in all manner of un- 
expected places. Inside she found 
spacious suites of rooms, all fur- 
nished with the most perfect taste, 
and with eyery appliance to ensure 
comfort which money could pro- 
cure. She found an establishment 
of well-trained and competent 
servants, with a sufficient number 
in each department to ensure that 
the allotted work of each would 
be properly don^. She found 
method, and, if possible, too much 
order and regularity in the manage- 
ment of the household; and, no- 
ticing that, she remembered what 
a favourite bobby this clockwork 
system had been with Yaughan 
long before he had bad a house of 
his own, and how his mother's 
carelessness in that respect used to 
chafe his temper. 

She did not know how his strict- 
ness chafed the domestics now 
under his control, nor how often a 
servant who did not yield unques- 
tioning obedience would be sent 
away, to be replaced by another, 
and another, until the right man or 
the right woman was in the right 
place. She did not know how those 
old servants, such as the butler and 
the housekeeper, who had been at 
**The Oaks" in Mrs. Vaughan's 
lifetime, and while the young ladies 
were unmarried, often mourned in 
the servants' hall over what they 

called '* master's pernickety ways," 
and wished that Mias Eleanor had 
not gone away, or that her father 
would marry again. 

Miss Russel, being a guest, of 
course saw or heard nothing of these 
domestic grievances; but she no- 
ticed before she had been an hour 
in the house that Harrv's expres- 
sion, " No end of a fuss," very 
inadequately described the endless 
weeding, raking, and pruning which 
must go on outside, and the equally 
endless sweeping, dusting, and 
polishing that must take place 
inside, to keep the garden and 
pleasure-grounds, rooms and pas- 
sages in order as perfect as that in 
which she saw them. Neither 
would Miss Bussel, although she 
was an evidently favoured guest, 
have ventured to move the position 
of a chair in the drawing-room, or 
have volunteered to make tea for 
the gentlemen unless specially in- 
vited to do so. Once she ventured 
to ask Harry if his father had taken 
so much trouble upon himself 
during his wife's lifetime, or when 
he had his daughters to manage for 

" Not at all," the young man had 
replied. '* Once let him see a lady 
permanently established in the house, 
and he will never interfere; but 
even when my sisters como here now 
they are treated as guests.*' 

Perhaps I have gone too mi- 
nutely into these apparently trivial 
details ; but I have done so to illus- 
trate the character of Mr. Yaughan. 
Clever, fascinating, and attractive 
as he was always acknowledged to 
be, it might be said of him, as was 
said of Horace Walpole by Mac- 
auley, '* Serious business was a 
trifle to him, and trifles were his 
serious business.'* 


The Shadow on the WaU. 



It 18 a deep mjalery the way the hetit 
of a man turmi to one woman ont of all the 
Test he has seen in the world, and makes it 
easier for him to work seven years for Aer, 
like Jsoob did for Baehel, sooner than have 
any other woman for the asking. — Ai>am. 

'* I AM ^iDg to leave you two to 
entertain each other until dinner 
time," Mr. Yaughan said at break-* 
fast, the morning afler Miss Kussel'tf 
arrival. ** I had hoped, Eleanor, to 
have been the first to show you 
some of the beauties of this old 
place myself, but I am obliged to 
ride into ^-— on business. What 
would you like to do ? Will you 
drive somewhere, you and Harry P 
It is too hot to attempt walking 
until evening. Shall I order the 
phaeton before I go out, or perhaps, 
the waggonette — ** 

'* For Heaven's sake," interrupted 
Harry with, all the petulance of a 
petted invalid, '* do not make it 
necessary for us to go out to drive 
by ordering anything. If we wish 
to go, we can surely ring a bell. I 
know bow it will be if you say a 
word — round the phaeton, or wag- 
gonette, or whatever it is will come 
to the moment, and then out we 
must go." 

"Very well, my dear boy, do 
exactly as you please,** replied 
Yaugban, who had allowed himself 
to be bullied by that only son of 
his, from the time, as a child, Harry 
had learned the art. "Only I beg 
that you will not tire yourself 
Eleanor, I depend on you to take 
care of him. Can I do anything 
for either of you in the town ? I 
suppose not, ladies despise country 
shops. Well, good-bye. I have 
some letters to write before I start." 

Away he went, but be presently 
put in his head again to say, laugh- 
ing, *' It is like old times to see a 
lady at the breakfast table,*' and at 
the simple remark, Eleanor blushed 

like a girl, and blushed still more 
when she caught Harry's eyes fixed 
upon her. 

*^ Shall we drive, or ' shall we 
potter about, in and out all day ? ** 
ne asked, as they went into the 
drawing-room together, soon after 
Mr. Yaughan had lefb them. It 
was deliciously cool there, for the 
windows were all open, and the light 
was subdued. " It is awfully hot 
for driving isn't it ? " 

" Yes, I think it is very hot, nn» 
less you could find a shady road 
through the woods. I should like 
a drive I confess." 

"Then we'll go. I like people 
to say at once what they wish to do, 
and I know a delicious road. I 
think we had better start at once, 
and be back to luncheon, or shall 
we take something to eat with us ? 
1 have a jolly little pio-nic basket, 
that will be the very thing." 

Harry rang the bell, and ordered 
the basket to be given to the bouse* 
keeper to be filled, and sent another 
order to the stables for a carriage 
in half an hour. 

** My father would never have al- 
lowed us to get this afiair," he said, 
as he handed Miss Bussel into a 
low Croydon phaeton drawn by a 
stout little pony. " Eleanor, my 
■ister, used to drive about in it to 
visit her poor people, and it's the 
jolliest little thing, just for one or 
two; but my father hates it, and 
always wonders what I do with my 
long legs in it." 

"I waa wondering too, where 
you stow them." 

" Oh, they are all right, but I 
musttake care of the basket. Would 
it tire you very much to hold up 
this umbrella until we get into the 
wood ? It's very large but not very 
heavy. There, that is famous, now 
we're off; this pony is a regular 
little brick ! we call him Scuttle. 
What will my father say ? Do you 

know I'm glad he had to go to 

to day, I want to have a great talk." 


The Shadow on the WaU. 


" You are so like your father I " 
Miss Bussel remarked, laughing; 
^*jou saj things so like him, I 

*' Do I ? I could not be like a 
better — fellow I was going to say; 
there really is no one like him, only 
he does worry one sometimes with 
his bothery little ways. I cannot 
be particular to a moment about 
things, and all that, and he is just 
like a clock. But indeed nothing 
could exceed his kindness to me 
while I was ill; no woman could 
have been more thoughtful. I 
shall never forget it, and I think 
too, he would do anything I asked 

" He says you do not ask him to 
do enough." 

" Does he P Dear old dad. Ah ! I 
do not want for anything he could 
give me," and Harry struck poor 
Scuttle rather a smart blow, which 
said plainly aa words, that he wanted 
something which his father could 
not give him. Then, after a lone 
pause he added — "Miss Eussel, 
how is she? When did you see 

"Not since the day after you 
saw her ; a long time, is it not? *' 

"I should say it was, rather," 
put in Harry by way of parenthesis. 

** But I hear from her sometimes, 
and she says she is quite well." 

'* And still living in that charming 
house at Brompton ? " Harry's 
tone was very scornful, and again 
poor Scuttle felt the whip — 
^' still sacrificing herself to her 
bther, and sister, or perhaps she is 
married to some one." 

"She is not married,*' replied 
Uiss Bussel, not a little amused at 
the young man's vehemence, '*at 
least her last letter to me was 
signed Bachel Scott." 

<< But perhaps she is going to be 
married ; she's engaged to some 
fellow I'll bet a guinea, some fiddler 
with long hair, or a young doctor — 
I'm sure iie*s a doctor, a brute who 

drops bis h's and smells of castor 
oil " 

" I think you might give Mis.« 
Scott credit for better taste," 
interrupted Miss Bussel, vexed at 
hii tone — " But,'' she added, feeling 
at once that it was useless to bj 
angry with him — " would you not 
be glad to hear that nhe was goin^ 
to be well married ? " 

** No, certainly not," he retorted, 
almost savagely ; " I am a regular 
dog in the manger. I cannot get 
her myself, but neither can I bear 
to think of her as another man's 
wife. You may laugh at me if you 
like, but since the day she refused 
me, I have been miserable! I don't 
care for my profession. I don't 
care for anything, and I wish I could 

go to the d ^1 like other men, and 

forget her, but I can't." 

" I wonder is any girl in the 
world worthy of such devotion," 
said Miss Bussel, quietly, " for I 
am strongly inclined to doubt it." . 

"That is always the way with 
you women," he answered, "you 
always make little of one another. 
I think Miss Scott is worth more 
love than I could ever give her, and 
I earnestly hope, if she does marry, 
that her husband — confound him — 
will value her as he ought. I wish 
I knew why she could not care for 
me," he concluded with a sigh. 

Miss Bussel, considering that the 
time for approaching that part of 
the jBubject had not yet come, re- 
marked, " you do not know I sup- 
pose that her sister has gone to 

"No, I did not. I should sav 
that was rather a good move for 
every one," replied Harry vaguely, 
and nut caring in the least where 
Bachel's sister went, and instantly 
returniog to the former subject, 
" You cannot tell me, I suppose, 
why Miss Scott refused me? I 
sometimes think that perhaps after 
all she was in love with Fairfax." 

"She was not in love with him," 


The Shadow on the WaU. 


replied Miss Bussel, decidedly. " I 
thought I explained all that fully 
to you before — you men are so sus- 
picioas." And then she was going to 
tell him of the unfortunate connexion 
which had existed between Fairfax 
and the Scotelli family, but on second 
thoughts she decided that it was 
better not. 

** Then I cannot understand it," 
he rejoined, " and I must not talk 
about it any more. I can surely 
find a more agreeable topic of con- 
versation for you than a strine; of 
selfish lamentations. Are not these 
old woods lovely P Don't you love 
oaks p I do not think there is any 
tree to be compared to an oak. 
Ah ! what happy days I have spent 
here, and what bushels of acorns 
the girls and I have picked up, and 
what fun we used to have when I 
came home for my holidays from 
Harrow. I wonder shall I ever be 
so happy aga\n ! I sometimes think 
that, only for my father,' I should 
like to have died when I was so ill 
last ppring.'* And having uttered 
this exceedingly foolish, not to say 
wicked, speech, Harry had to submit 
to a gooa scolding from his com- 
panion, for Miss Bussel was really 
angry with him for being so hope- 
les.**, and so miserable. 

When she had done he thanked 
her quite humbly, and said he was 
sure he had made a ** horrible fool " 
of himself, and that he was very 
sorry for it, and that his father was 
right, there was no one in the world 
like Miss Bussel, she need not say 
*' nonsense.'* His father had said it: 

So from that point the day went 
smoothly, aiid the little tSfe-d'tite 
pic-nic was most successful, and 
Harry declared that he felt more 
like himself than he had done for 
weeks, and he laughed and chatted 
merrily during the drive home, and 
his father, who was standing in the 
porch waiting for them, was quite 
struck by the altered expression of 
his fade. Perhaps Miss Kussel had 

contrived to mingle a ray of hope 
with her lecture. 

They dined late that day, and 
afiter dinner Harry, feeling tired 
after his unusual exercise, stretched 
himself upon a sofa, and fell asleep^ 
and Mr. Vaughan had chairs brought 
out for himself and his guefst on th& 
verandah outside the drawing-room 
windows, and their dessert and coffee 
were served to them there, and while 
he smoked a cigar he heard from 
Eleanor the story of his son's love 

''So," he said, when she had 
finished, "the poor boy is hope- 
lessly in love, and the fair lady is 
obdurate. I am surprised to hear 
that, if, as you say, she cares for 
no one else, for Harry might be 
any womanls fancy. Well, what is 
to be done next? All this haj^ 
pened two years ago, you tell me^ 
and he is mad about her still, so it 
is useless to tell him to forget her 
I suppose. What do you advise, 
Eleanor ? " 

** I advise him to try again." 

'* And risk a second refusal ? No, 
thank you, the Yaughans never ask 
twice." , 

'^ell, this special Yaughan must 
ask twice," replied Miss Russel 
smiling, as she thought how such 
a speech would have surprised her 
if spoken by Yaughan when she 
had first known him, " or else he 
must go on crying for the moon all 
his lite. Suppose I tell you that 
the girl did care for him, and that 
she refused him because siie felt it 
to be her duty to do so." 

** If a woman cares for a man she 
has no right to make him miserable 
for duty." 

" I knew you would say that, it 
is so exactly one of your speeches, 
and a very dangerous doctrine it 
is too. But suppose I tell you 
that there was more than duty iu 
her refusal, that there was the fear 
that the father of the man she 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


loved would object to her on ac- 
count of circumstances connected 
with her family — I have already 
told you of her father and sister — 
an a wife for his only son, and that 
she thought it was far wiser and 
kinder to let Harry believe that she 
did not care for him, rather than, per- 
hnpa, be the cause of a breach be- 
tween you and hjm." 

"Might she not have trusted to 
my wish to see my son happy ? might 
she not have been sure of my ap- 
proval when I saw how his heart 
was set upon the marriage ? " 

** Oh ! you think now that your 
consent was a matter of course, be- 
cause you have seen the effect of 
disappointment upon Harry; but 
suppose that your consent had 
been asked when he was strong 
and well, aa he was two years 
ago, what would have been the re- 

'•Well I dare say you're right, 
Eleanor, and the music-master and 
that woman, the sister, are a stum- 
blingblock even still. But you say 
that she has gone to France, and let 
ns hope in Prance she will remain, 
and for the old father, he will not 
interfere, I dare say." 

" Then if Harry can succeed, you 
will consent ? '* cried Eleanor, her 
eyes beaming. 

' ** Yes, willingly. I think that a 
woman who could act as Miss Scott 
has acted, rather than get her lover 
into trouble, must be worth some- 
thing, although, at the same time, 
I think that such self-sacrifice 
rarely pays in this matter-of-fact 
age. YovL know her well, do you 
not ? I am inclined to take 
your opinion of her before Harry's ; 
of course she is an angel in his 

So Miss Eussel, taking the hint, 
gladly repeated all the praises she 
had already bestowed upon Rachel, 
and Mr. Yaughan listened with his 
eyes closed — an old trick of his. 

•* I fancy we may look upon the 

affair as almost settled," he said 
preaently. " I wonder if Harry wil, 
leave the army. I hope not, he has 
money his grandfather, Mr. Forbes, 
left him, so he could keep his wife 
better than many soldiers can; 
besides, there is my allowance. 
But have you thought of a plan for 
bringing these despairing lovers 
together? Can I do anything? 
Shall we send Harry off to London 
by express train, taking a little note 
from me telling her that she may say 
' yes ' ? — There, I am only joking ! 
How well I know that frown you 
give when you do not approve. 
Will you then take the matter into 
your own "kind and skilful 
hands ?" 

^' With pleasure, and my plan is 
to get Harry to come back with me 
to The Lodge for a little change, and 
to ask Bachel to come there too. 
Then I think they will manage the 
rest themselves." 

'*A very nice arrangement for 
every one — except me. Am I to 
come to The Lodge too ? I want to 
make my future daughter-in-law's 

'* Tou must come to the wedding 
of course, and you can if you 
Uke— " 

** Who is talking of weddings ?" 
said Harry, appearing at the 
window behind them, and looking 
flushed, and tumbled after his 
sleep, ** Is any one going to be 
married ?'* 

'* Miss Eussel was speaking of a 
wedding which is to take place 
very soon, and at which she hopes 
to see both you and me, Harry, and 
you will have to make a speech she 

'* It will have to come off very soon 
then, or it will not be honoured 
with my presence," returned Harry, 
rather ungraciously. *' I shall join 
my regiment, I hope, in another 
month, my leave will be out then, 
and I cannot ask for a further ex- 

•• • 


The Shadow <m the Wall. 


"And in the meantime,** said 
Yaughan, smiling, " here comes 
Jenkins with tea." 

" Well, Eleanor, you and Harry 
have had a long talk," saidVaughan, 
the following day, when Miss Basse! 
came out and joined him on the 
terrace upon which the drawing- 
room windows opened. ** I hope 
you have not settled to run awa^ 
with him from The Oaks yet. £ 
renlly cannot let you go so soon.*' 

'* Thank you ; I have not said any- 
thing to Harry as yet ahout coming 
to The Lodge, but I have dropped a 
delicate little hint that there might 
be other reasons for Rachel's rejec- 
tion of him than want of affection. 
I wish you had seen his face — poor 
fellow !" 

" Why, Eleanor you are a wonder- 
ful creature! My good angel 
must have inspired me to write to 
you. But do you know what 
astonishes me more than I can tell 
you, and what I have wondered at 
for ages ? " 

" No, what is it ?" 

'' I want to know how it is that 
you have never married, Eleanor ? 
)L do not think you were the kind of 
girl every man would have fallen in 
love with, you know — " 

*' Am I to take that as a compli- 

"I mean it as a compliment, I do 
indeed. You were too cold — " 

" I know exactly what you mean," 
interrupted Eleanor. '* You mean 
that I was unlovable." 

"Indeed I do not," he replied 
earnestly, •' very far from it — you 
unlovable ! But you never seemed as 
if you wanted love from others ; do 
you not understand ? I know what 
I mean, but I cannot express it 
properly. Still I am sure you 
might have been married. There 
was that artist, Danvers, as good a 
fellow as ever lived, and as clever, 
and as sensible, was he not ? I am 
sure be. was in love with you, and I 

have a shrewd suspicion that he 
proposed to you, why didn't yod 
marry him ? '* 

" I do not think you have any 
right to ask me such a question.*' 

'*Do you not? I think you 
might tell me about it now." Then, 
after a pause he went on again, 
more seriously, and with some 
hesitation. '* There is one other 
question I must ask — would you 
have — Well, my good man, wbat 
do you want ? " 

A labourer, with an unmistakably 
Irish face, had come round a corner 
suddenly, and stood before then), 
touching his hat. 

*• I was loukin' for yer honour," 
he said. 

"Well, my honour is here. I 
beg your pardon, Eleanor, just wait 
for me for a moment, will you ?" 
He walked apart with the man, who 
had some grievance to relate, and 
Miss Bussel stood watching them. 
She suspected what that interrupted 
' question was going to be ; but she 
knew Yaughan so well, that she 
felt sure when he joined her again 
he would be full of some other 
subject, and in that way she might 
escape being called upon for a reply. 

And she was right. When Paddy 
touched his hat and went away, 
Yuughan returned to her, saying, 
" I wish I could manage to please 
every one ; but I have been trying 
it for years, and I have not suc- 
ceeded yet. There is that fellow " 
— ^and then he went off into a long 
explanation, which led to other 
explanations, and before he had 
finished the luncheon bell rang, and 
they went in. 

" I never saw any one so un- 
changed," said Miss Bussel to her- 
self, as she went to her room to 
take off her bonnet ; '^ his pecu- 
liarities have only strengthened 
with time." And she was fully 
conscious that had any one except 
her old friend gone on prosing to 
her about his farm labourers, and 


The Shadow on the WaU. 


about what his steward wanted to 
have done, and what he chose to 
have done, that she would have 
been intensely bored. 

At luncheon Harry mentioned 
having seen some young lady of the 
neighbourhood on horseback for the 
fir»t time the day before. 

** I should think a cow would look 
quite as well," was the elder 
Yaughairsuncomplimentary remark. 
*'Eleanor,doyou override now? You 
bad a good seat, and a light hand, I 
remember. Poor dear old * Pacha,' 
how well he used to carry you." 

Miss Eussel had become accus- 
tomed to reminiscences by that 
time ; at first they had been rather 
trying. "I never ride now,*' she 
answered. *• I am too old." 

" Old ! Do vou hear het, 
Harry? Why, sitting there"—" Yes, 
with my back to the light," put in 
Eleanor — " you do not look five-and- 
tweuty — well, thirty, then. I think 
it is very unkind of you to take 
every opportunity as you do of re- 
minding me of my age. I want to 
forget that I am a grandfather ; 
but indeed I cannot forget it when 
I look back to the old days at 
C — — , before you were thought of, 
sir " — turning to Harry. ** Eleanor, 
do you remember the discussions, 
we used to have, and how you used 
to argue your point " 

*' And how you used to argue 

*< Used I ? I thought I always 
gaTo up. I know we rarely agreed 
upon abstract subjects. I wonder 
what has become of the Crinvads, 
and that pretty little cousin of 
theirs who went to India ? I sup- 
pose she is the size of a house by 
this time. She was jtist the style 
of woman to grow stout and lazy 
in India. By the way, I met Dan- 
Ters in London the last time I was 
up — we were speaking of him just 
now, Eleanor, and I forgot to tell 
you. He has turned out such a 
' swell.' He married the only 

daughter of some rich Manchester 
cotton-spinner, who used to buy up 
his pictures at the Academy. She 
had a pot of money, of course, and 
they have a house in Hyde Park 
Gardens. She is not a bad kind of 
woman, and dresses like a plate in 
a fashion book ; but somehow I 
fancy poor old Danvers would have 
been happier had he married less 
for money and more for love." 

Yaughan looked at Miss Bussel 
as he said the last words, with so 
much of the old boyish expression^ 
of mischief in his eyes, that she 
could almost fancy she was again 
sitting with him under the shady 
tree in her aunt's lawn. 

A fortnight passed quietly away 
in this genial and kindly i^ter* 
course, and Mr. Yaughan never 
seemed weary of walking, talking, 
and driving with his guest. He 
took her to see all the ''show" 
places in the neighbourhood. He 
made her visit with him all his 
farms, and a whole village of model 
cottages, which he was building for 
his tenants and labourers ; he took 
her to inspect a school, which he 
had established upon a principle of 
his own ; then, at his request, she 
examined the children, and when 
she gave her opinion, which was at 
variance with his respecting some of 
the rules and regulations he had 
made, he argued the point with all 
his old pertinacity ; but finally, and 
much to her surprise, he adopted 
her suggestions. 

And then, during their long 
iite-a-iite walks he told her about 
his daughters, and their marriages, 
and how he liked his sons-in-law, 
and he spoke of his wife's illness, 
and death, and of his long, lonely 
journey back from Madeira, and 
declared that only now had The 
Oaks begun to seem like home 
to him again, and a hundred times 
he went back to their old life at 

C , and proved how excellent 

was his memory by recurring to 


The Shadow an the Wall. 


little things of no importance 
which had happened there, Harry 
ns^ sometimes to declare laugh- 
ingly, that he was qaite jealous of 
his father's monopoly of Miss 
Bussel. But upon the whole he 
was Tery well contented with all the 
world just then, for Eleanor had 
confided to him what she knew to 
bo the real cause of Rachel'd re- 
jection of him, and she had urged 
him — but he was very willing to 
be urged — to try his fate once 
more, and he had wanted to rush 
off to London at once to be made 
happy; but he had yielded, after 
some pressing, to Miss Bussel's 
wish that he should wait for a few 
days, and then return with her to 
The Lodge, whither Bachel should 
be invited, without knowing, how- 
ever, who was to be there before 

Although the elder Yaughan 
begged very hard for " a few days 
more," Miss Bussel was firm in 
her resolve to leave at the end of 
a fortnight, and accordingly she 
and Harry departed together, the 
latter in such brilliant spirits, and 
in such wonderfully improved health, 
that it was no wonder his father 
should whisper to Miss Bussel, as he 
held her hand at parting, '' I wish 
I could thank you, Eleanor, for 
what you have done for my boy. I 
know now what a weight there 
was on my mind about him. My 
best, and truest of friends, good- 

He was in one of his absent fits 
as he drove back alone to The Oaks, 
so absent, that he actually passed 
one or two of his most intimate 
friends upon the road without see- 
ing them. Then, as he turned in 
at the Lodge gate, he roused him- 
self, and the words in his mind, as 
he tightened the reins, and touched 
the ponies with the whip to make 
them gallop up the drive, were, 
** I do not in the least see why I 

'* Papa," said Bachel, a few days 
later, '* my friend Miss Bussel has 
asked me to go and stay with her 

for a short time at W ; you. 

have no objection, I hope P " She 
did not say, " You will miss me,'* 
for she was but too painfully con- 
scious of what little account her 
society really was to him. 

Scotelli had no objection! la 
fact, he was delighted beyond mea* 
sure that his daughter should go 
away at that particular time, for 
the mistress of the academy before 
mentioned, Miss Montresor, had 
tightened her toils upon him most 
effectually, and he was pledged to 
marry her before the summer vaca- 
tion ended. Could be have broken the 
news of her approaching stepmother 
to Bachel without being obliged to 
witness the shock which it would 
give her he would have been per- 
fectly happy, for the influence of 
the future Madame Scotelli was very 
potent just then. 

She had decided what Bachel's 
future was to be at once. The 
house at Brompton was to be given 
up, and Miss Scott was to take up 
her abode at the academy, paying 
to the head of that establishment 
fifty pounds a year out of the 
hundred she received from Miss 
Conway, and in the event of her 
aunt's allowance ceasing, she was 
to teach singing to beginners in 
that accomplishment. But when 
Scotelli heard of his daughter*s 

invitation to W , he decided 

that he could tell her of his mar- 
riage by letter when the ceremony 
was over, and then she could come 
back to her new home when her 
visit to Miss Bussel had ended. 


Qod had brought the tardy bleaaing 
Roand her at the Ust. 

William G. Wills. 

And now I am quite aware that to 
all intents and purposes my simple 


The Shadow on the WaU. 


fltory is finished, and that jou all 
know what is to come as well as I 
do myself. But just as in a play, 
when the last act is drawing to a 
<;lose, all the actors group them- 
eel?es to make their last speeches, 
and the heroine sinks into her 
lover's arms, and the once ston?-- 
iiearted father blesses the happy 
pair, and the villain of the piece 
gluwera upon the blissful scene ; 
after which all the company take 
hands, and go gracefully backwards, 
bowing as the curtain falls. So my 
hero and heroine must embrace; 
my father must bless, and my 
villain — but I have no villain, pro- 
perly speaking — before I can ven- 
ture to dismiss my audience, and 
lay down my pen. 

With a light heart, Bachel found 
herself in the train, speeding from 
London to W-— — . How she had 
been pining, she alone knew, for 
fresh country air, and for flowers, 
and for green grass, instead of dusty, 
noisy streets ; and above all, how 
she had been longing for the sight 
of her friend's kind face. 

" At last ! " she said, as, the jour- 
ney over, she was fondly embraced 
by Miss Bussel upon the platform 

at W . " Oh, you do not know 

how I have longed to see you 

'* Something told me that you 
would not refuse me this time," re- 
plied Eleanor ; " but how pale you 
look, dear. Has it been very hot 
in town ? " 

" It has been 'stifling ! I could 
neither eat nor sleep. Do you 
know, the night before your letter 
came, I had made up ray mind to 
write to know if you would have 
me, even for a week? Was it not 
strange? But how well you are 
looking, dear. Granny ! What have 
you been doing to yourself?" 

^' Nothing particular ; nursing an 
invalid friend, whom I have with 
me at The Lodge at present ; so you 

will not have me all to yourself, 

*' Oh, is she going to stay long ? 
I hope she is not a bad invalid. I 
want to have you all to myself; but 
never mind, I shall see you every 
day, if there were fifty invalids. 
How exactly the same the old town 
looks. There is the old gingerbread 
woman sitting in the very same spot 
under the barrack wall, and I 
shouldn't wonder if she had the same 
cakes in her basket. You have got 
a Highland regiment now, I see." 

*' Yes, the 9 — th, and the young 
ladies have all gone Tartan mad. I 
saw four bonnets in church last 
Sunday, trimmed with the Gordon 
plaid I suppose you mean to as- 
tonish us country folk with some 
pretty London fashions. By the 
way, Julia Pairfax is going to be 
married to a German baron or 
count, or Serene Highness, whom 
she met last winter in Rome." 

'^And I read Miss Bokeby's 
marriage to Mr. Buthven in the 
Timesy about a month ago," said 
Bachel, " so that two of the W — -— 
belles are disposed of. But here 
we are at the dear old Lodge, and 
it looks as pretty as ever. Ob, what 
flowers ? It is so long since I have 
seen a real country flower." 

'' Now, dear," said Miss Bussel, 
as they came in, " your room is the 
one next to mine. You know it;; 
go and take oflT your hat^ and then 
we can have some luncheon. You 
are not to see my iu valid, however, 
just yet, so do not be frightened." 

Miss Bussel had been struck by 
the marked change and improve- 
ment in Rachel's appearance when 
they had met at the station ; but 
when she came down without her 
hat and mantle, she was positively, 
startled. Gould that tall, graceful 
girl with the perfectly moulded 
figure, whose every movement waa 
dignity and grace, be the same 
pretty, engaging, but unformed 
little creature who had captivated 


Tke Shadow on the Wall. 


Hnrrj Yaughan with her sweet 
cbilditih beauty two jeare before ? 

She had been faseiDatin^ then 
in her innocent simplicity. She was 
doubly fascinating now, for the 
books she had studied during her 
quiet lonely life had added to her 
many attractions the attraction of 
a cultivated mind. Clever, or 
strong-minded she would never be, 
but she knew enough to make her 
conversation often brilliant, and 
always interesting, and agreeable. 
But the jears which had passed had 
done more than heigliten and 
develop her womanly charms and 
cultivate her intellect ; they had 
moulded her character, and with- 
out having deprived her alto- 
gether of that simple, confiding 
trust in human nature, that belief 
in honour, faithfulness and truth 
which keeps a woman's heart young, 
they had civen her a glimpse of the 
failures which may attend the fairest 
hopes, and of the deceptions which 
may dispel the brightest illusions. 
She had learned too, but not perhaps 
in its severest form, a lesson against 
which the human heart hotly rebels, 
the lesson which Goethe has grandly 
called the doctrine of *' Senuncia- 

She had learned that '' to suffer 
and be strong" did not mean, as 
Bome people interpret the sajing, 
being strong in nothing except 
making moan over what might have 
been, and what was, but meant in 
the fullest and truest sense, doing 
her duty where Ood had placed her, 
not '^ walking upon the shadows of 
bills across a level thrown, and 
panting like a climber," but taking 
ner life as it came, the rough and the 
smooth together. That she was 
not always able to repress her in- 
clination to rebel and to murmur, I 
have before explained, but upon the 
whole she had behaved very well, and 
BOW she was going to have her reward. 

"Hachel dear, you have eaten 
positively nothing," said Miss 

Bussel to her young guest that same 
day at dinner. **I have been 
v^atching you, and all my little 
delicacies appear quite thrown away» 
It is fortunate for my cook that I 
have an invalid in the house ta 
appreciate her dainties — ^are you 
quite well ? " 

'* Quite well, thank you. but I 
feel a little tired sometimes, as if I 
should like a long rest. I am sure 
the change will soon make me quite 
like myself again. I often feel so 
at home, feel tired I mean " — she 
bad grown to regard the dingy little 
house at Brompton as ** home ** — 
" to tell you the truth I have not 
enough to do, not enough of stirring- 
work. I read sometimes all day 
long, until my head begins to buu. 
like that poor Mr:i. Wragg's in * No 

" And what do you call stirring 

'* Giving lessons would be stirring 
enough for me ; you need not shake 
your head at me, Granny, I am 
thinking seriously of having pupila 
next winter." 

'•I do not think you will have 
anything of the kind," replied Miss 
Bussel, in her decided way ; '^ you 
are not fit for such drudgery aa 
teaching, dear ;" she added, looking 
admiringly at the beautiful girl 
before her, " and now I must leave, 
you for a while. I have my invalid 
to look after, and you may lie down 
and rest, or read, or sing— I had 
the piano tuned for you yesterday ; 
or do anything you like." 

*' Who i8 this abominable invalid 
of yours ?" cried Bachel, " whe 
upon earth is she, and why has she 
come here just now, to take up mj 
Granny's time ? " 

" Tour Granny is very fond of 
her poor invalid," replied Miss 
Busseljaying her hand affectionately 
upon Bachers shoulder, ^and so 
will you too, when you come to 
know each other by -and- by." 

•• Never : 1 have begun " 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


" * With a little aversion ;' very 
welly we Bhall pee. 1 shall expect 
to hear one of your sweet so'nprs 
presently, and my invalid will *' 

** I will not listen," cried Eachel, 
playfully stopping her ears. Miss 
Sussel laughed and vanished. 

Bachel went into the drawing- 
room alone, and wandered about 
looking at favourite books, and 
pictures, and noting what changes 
bad been made in the pretty room 
■iDce she had seen it kst. 

It was full of associations for 
her. There was the carved ebony 
paperknife with which Harry used 
to play while he read aloud for 
ber and Miss Bussel — all the most 
beautiful passages in Byron and 
Tennyson were connected in her 
mind with that little toyl There 
was the album in which he had 
sketched the caricatures which had 
amused them so much. She opened 
the book, and went over the draw- 
ings, one by one. Beside it there 
was a photographic album, in which 
she knew she should find a likeness 
of the artist, and unable to resist 
the temptation she opened it, and 
presently came upon Harry leaning 
upon a broken column, and frown- 
ing savagely. " I wonder Granny 
keeps such a thing in her album," 
was the young lady's indignant 
comment as she clasped the book 

The next thing she came upon 
was a little ornamental egg-shaped 
■hell, mounted in ormolu, opening 
with a spring, and holding tiny 
perfume bottles ; of this Harry 
Dad always expressed a great 
horror, and Miss Bussel used to 
declare he was always trying to 
break it. And there was the little 
Prench clock upon the chimney 
piece, the face of which he used 
to cover at night, that Miss Bussel 
might not notice how late it was 
growing, and turn him out. There 
was not a book, or an ornament in 
the room, which had not some con- 

nection, intimate, or remote with 
Yaughan, and poor Bachel began 
to fear that she hod scarcely done 
wisely to put herself in the way of 
being rennuded of him daily and 
hourly, as she must be at The 

At length she lay down upon a 
sofa by one of the open windows^ 
and looking out on the pretty 
garden, she inhaled with pleasure 
the perfume of the flowers, and 
sighed a deep sigh of contentment. 
It was so delicious to be away 
from dusty, stifling London ! The 
house was very quiet, and she pre- 
sently fell fast asleep, and when she 
awoke she was surprised to find 
that the sun had some time set, and 
that the lo^m was in semi-darkness. 

She got up and went to the 
piano. It was the hour she best 
loved music, although its influence 
was scarcely so soothing as it 
might have been in broad daylights 
She played some chords, and ran 
ber fingers dreamily over the keys, 
as if undecided what to sing, then 
abruptly she began that touching 
ballad of Miss Edwards, '* Many a 
time and oil" which Madame 
Dolby's singing has made so justly 

As she began the second verse 
she heard the door behind her, 
which led into the hall, open and 
close, but she went on singing ; she 
was even conscious that a step came 
softly up the room, and when her 
voice had died away, after singing,, 
with a pathos that was more than 
touching, the last words of the 
refrain, " Ob many a time ! many 
a time and oft!" she turned, ex* 
pectin^ to see Miss Bussel, but 
instead, she saw a figure which was 
only too familiar, and too dear — ^in 
the dim light she caught the be- 
seeching, adoring glance of tiAro 
honest blue eyes, she heard the 
sweet, well-remembered voice 
whisper the one word •* Bachel!" 

She never knew how it all came 


The ShOfiow on the Wall. 


about, but it seemed as if no 
questions were asked or answered 
before she found herself clasped in 
Harrj's strong arms while he 
murmured, '' at last you have come 
to me, my own darling, my wife ! " 

There was no more singing after 
that, and the long twilight, which 
in July takes the place of dark* 
ness, had set in before those two 
happy creatures remembered that 
there was any one in the world ex- 
cept themselves. 

** And how could you say that 
you. did not love me that day?" 
Harry had asked, reproachfully; 
^' don't you know, darling that it is 
not right to tell stories ? " 

" I did not say it," she bad 
retorted triumphantly; "you did 
not give me time, you interrupted 
me before I could finish my 
sentence, and then you went off 
like a flash of lightning ; the clap 
you gave the hall-door shook the 
whole street, I think, and it was 
very rude of you to interrupt me, 
air," she added, looking up at him 
with her beautiful eyes radiant 
jvith a happy light; '* besides, how 
could you tell what I was going to 
say ? perhaps I wasn't going to say 
No, after aU." 

And then oaths and expletives — 
«.0., endearments and caresses — 
from Harry, and so on Da capo, 
4id infinitum until the door — the 
lovers had forgotten the existence 
of doors-— opened, and Miss Bussel 
came in, carrying a lamp. 

** Where are you, Bachel ? Oh, 
what do I see ? Miss Scott in the 
embrace of a stalwart soldier!" 
lis the girl rose, blushing and 

" Now, child, who was right ? 
Did I not tell you that you would 
be very fond of my invalid ? Not 
that there is much of the sick list 
about you now, Harry." 

"Was it really Harry? You 
said * she.' " 

'* You said ' she.' I took great 

care to be strictly impersonal in my 
pronouns. But now, if you have 
said enough to one another for the 
present, we will have some tea. 
1 know Harry ate no dinner; he 
was far. too much excited to think 
about puch a commonplace thing as 
dinner. I wish you had seen me 
trying to keep him quiet, Bachel, 
until you began to sing; and 
yet, until you began, be would 
not go near you, I suppose he 
thought hQ had a better chance of 
a favourable reply when you were 
under the influence of your pwa 
sweet voice. But do come away ; 
I must write a letter for the post to- 
night, and it is f^ettin^ very late." 

The lettier Miss Bussel wrote 
that night bore the address, " Henry 
Vaughan, Esq., The Oaks, —shire." 
The reply came to it by return, in 
the shape of Yaoghan himself. 

" You did not ask me, I know, 
Eleanor," he said; "but I could 
not help coming to make the ac- 
quaintance ot our Bachel, and she 
quite comes up to all I could wish 
ray son's wife to be," was his verdict 
in discussing the bride^lect with 
Eleanor. *'The golden thread of 
refinement of mind runs through 
every word and action. She is 
worthy of the Yaughans." 

So they were all wonderfully 
happy ; the young people espe- 
cially had no crumples in their rose- 
leaves— indeed, they were already 
ridiculously happy. Harry was 
never contented except by Bkchel'a 
side ; but then, as she was in that 
position as oflen as it was possible 
for her to be, he was, as a matter 
of course, almost always contented. 
And how radiantly lovely she looked, 
glowing in the sunshine . of her 
happy love ! Now that Hai'ry was 
actually her very own, she was not 
afraid to let him see how entirely 
she had given him her heart. And 
was he not worthy of it in her eyes ? 
Others might think him only an 
agreeable, and rather a good-looking 


The Shadow on the Walk 


TOUDg man ; but 'to her he was a 
nero— her " man of men !*' absolute 
and undoubted perfection. 

The marriage was arranged ta 
take place immediately. Harrj, in 

Site of his former declarations on 
e subject, applied for an additional 
month's leave, and he affirmed that 
if he were not. married before it 
expired, it might be years before 
the ceremony could take place. Of 
course that was not the truth ; but 
he said it, notwithstanding. 

Bachel demurred a little on ac- 
count of her father, she said, which 
waa plainly absurd of her to do, for 
two reasons — ^firstly, because Harry 
was scarcely more anxious to be 
her husband than she was to be his 
wife; and, secondly, because her 
&ther was of no importance in the 
matter whatever. Her marriage was 
more likely to be a relief to him 
than otherwise. 

But all her scruples were set at 
rest by the arrival of a letter from 
the music master, announcing his 
own blissful union with Miss Mon- 
tresor. The letter was written 
from Paris, whither . the '' happy 
pair*' had gone to spend the honey- 
moon, and it was the most doleful 
epistle which had ever, I suppose, 
been penned by a happy bride- 
groom« It ended by hoping that 
his dear child would forgive him 
for having kept the change in his 
life a secret, and that she would 
by-and-by find a happy home with 
him and her new mamma at Isling- 

So a reply was at once despatched, 
announcing that Bachel would never 
find a home with him again, and the 
day for her marriage was fixed, and 
every one was satisfied. Miss Con- 
way was reconciled to her niece, 
gave her a handsome trousseau, and 
insisted that the wedding should 
take place from her house. Bachel 
would much have preferred being 
married from The Lodge, but she 
eould not say no to her aunt, and 

after all it did not much signify. 
Miss Buseel was rather pleased with 
the arrangement than otherwise, 
for she was to receive the whole 
Yaughan family as her guests for 
the occasion — the bridegroom, his 
father, his three married sisters and 
their husbands. 

These latter all came the day 
before the wedding, and the three 
ladies were charmed with their 
new sister, and with their hostess, 
of whom they declared they had 
often heard •* Papa and Harry " 
speak. They were handsome, 
stylish-looking women. Eleanor, 
Mrs. Fortescue, was the least hand- 
some of the three ; she had her 
father's plain features, and his 
varied expression ; in manner, too, 
she was like him, and somehow 
Miss Bussel '' got on," as the say- 
ing is, best with her. The eldest 
daughter, Caroline — Mrs. Clifton — 
was very like her mother; even 
Eleanor could detect the like* 
ness, although she had never seen 
Mrs. Yaughan but twice. It was 
very pleasing both to Harry and to 
Miss Bussel to see how well Bachel 
made her way amongst them, with' 
her quiet, thorough-bred manner 
and admirable tact. 

The wedding-day was all that a 
wedding-day should be, warm and 
bright. But there is no more to 
be told about it than about any 
other wedding that has ever taken 
place. The party made quite a 
pretty picture in the dim old Ca- 
thedral ; but the efiect of the scene 
was quite lost upon the actors 
therein. Major Howard came over 
from Ireland to be Harry's best 
man, and his speech at the break- 
fast, returning thanks for the 
bridesmaids, was the best speech 
of the day, for Harry literally did 
not know what he was doins, and 
talked great nonsense; and Mr. 
Yaughan, his father, broke down ut- 
terly, in trying to propose the health 
of the mistress of The Lodge. 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


Then tbe good-byes were paid, 
and the last of the many kisses ex- 
changed during that ceremony, 
were those bestowed by Mr. and 
Mrs. Henry Yaughan upon the 
" best "— kiss ; ** kindest "—kiss ; 
and " dearest " — kiss — kiss — kiss 
— ** of friends " — Miss Kussel, of 

The day succeediog the marriage 
Mr. Yaugban^s elder daughters and 
their husbands went away, leaving 
Mrs. Fortescue, with her father and 
Mr. Fortescue still at The Lodge. 
They were to return to The Oaks 
in a day or two, to recei?e the bride 
and bridegroom, who were to pay a 
short vit>it to Harry's home before 
they started for Ireland. 

It was eyening. The small party 
at The Lodge had dined pleasantly 
together. Mr. Fortescue was a 
most agreeable and well-read man, 
and he and Mr. Yaughan had kept 
up an animated conversation, which 
prevented Miss Bussel's unusual 
silence from being noticed. Mrs. 
Fortescue was by nature rather 
silent and reserved. 

She and her hostess were sitting 
together in the drawing-room after 
dinner, waiting for the gentlemen 
to join them, when Mrs. Fortescue 
mentioned having seen some book 
through the glass doors of the book- 
case in the library, which she had 
been wishing to look over, and Miss 
Bussel left tbe room to get it for her. 

bhe was standing on the library 
steps, searching for the volume, 
when she heard the dining-room 
door open and close, and the voices 
of the gentlemen as they crossed 
the hall. She thought that both 
of them had passed on by the open 
door of the library, but she was 
mistaken ; on turning to come down 
the steps, she was surprised to see 
Yaughan standing watching her. 

" How did you know I was here?" 
she a^ked. 

, " I did not knowyoii were here," 
he replied ; " but, as I passed the 

door, I thought some giantess had 
taken possession of your library, 
when I saw the shadow. Look 
there !" 

The room was lighted by two 
small moderator lamps, placed 
upon the chimney-piece, and thus 
a distorted shadow of Miss Bussel 
standing on the step-ladder was 
thrown upon the opposite wall. 
She did not say anything, but came 
down quickly, and stood by the 
empty fireplace with the book in 
her hand. 

Yaughan came over and stood 
beside her. They were both silent, 
and the stillness of the room be- 
came almost oppressive. After a 
while it was broken by Yaughan : 
" These last few weeks have been 
very happy weeks to me," he said, 
'* and I am sure they have been so 
to you too, Eleanor, for you always 
found pleasure in making others 

*• Yes," she answered, " if Bachel 
and Harry were my own children, 
I could not love them more." 

Silence again for a time ; again 
broken by Yaughan. "Eleanor,'* 
he said, *' since we have met we 
have often talked of the dear old 
days we used to spend together; 
but never have I been so fbrcibly 
reminded of them as to-night, when 
I saw your shadow on the wall, just 

She evidently knew what was 
coming, for she turned deadly pale, 
and shivered almost audibly. " Do 
you remember the evening f " he 
went on. 

" Oh, do not — pray do not !" she 
interrupted imploringly, covering 
her face. " I cannot bear it." 

He very gently, almost tenderly, 
took both her hands into his own, 
and held them, while he continued : 
" I am not going to say anything to 
pain you, dear Eleanor. Can you 
not trust me?" 

She drew a deep sigh, by way of 
answer, and he continued : " I am^ 


The Shadow on the Wall. 


ware you never knew, neyer even 
•aspected, what brought me to your 
4tunt*8 house that eveaing of which 
it grieyes you to speak. I went, 
Eleanor, to ask you to be my wife. 
You know what I saw, and the 
mistake into which it led me — a 
mistake which changed both our 
lives; that is, if you would ha?e 
given me, what you refused to 
others — your love.'* 

"And you cared for me, then?" 
she said, slowly, as though that 
fact obliterated all others at the 

" Yes, I cared for you — not, per- 
haps, with the same strong, over- 
whelming passion I soon felt for 
Caroline Forbes, but with a love 
strong enough to have made me 
happy to call you mine — a love 
founded upon thorough knowledge 
of your character. And now, 
Eleanor, having made my confes- 
sion, tell me in your turn, was your 
feeling for me then more than 
friendship ?" 

" As you remember so much of 
the past, Henry,*' she replied, using 
his Christian name for the first 
time, ** perhaps you remember some 
of our many discussions upon love 
and friendship ? You used to think 
that I did not make enough of dif- 
ference between them. Now is 
your question answered ? " 

"Not quite," he replied, smilingly; 
"I must ask it in another form- 
would you have married me, 
Eleanor ? '• 

"Yes," she answered frankly, 
*' why should I hesitate to let you 
know it now ? I never liked any* 
one, I never could hnve liked any- 
one so much as I liked you — but 
do not mistake me. I was truly, 
and sincerely glad when I saw you 
happy with another.'* 

"I believe it," he returned 
earnestly, *' that was precisely the 
fault in your character, you are not 
exacting for yourself; personal 
appropriation of the object of your 

love never entered your head. 
Eleanor ! " and his tone suddenly 
changed to one of deep feeling, 
and his clapp tightened upon her 
hands. '* You said a little while ago 
to my daughter that you thought 
my home was perfect. It has one 
want, and my life has one void 
which you alone can fill ; you con- 
fess that you cared for me in the 
old days, we are both alone in the 
world now ; why should we not 
spend the rest of our lives to- 

He felt a tremor run through 
the hands he held, and he saw the 
warm blood flush brightly into her 
face, softening the lines that time 
had made. She was no longer 
young, but those words spoken so 
earnestly, and with such undoubted 
sincerity by her old friend, stirred 
her heart with emotions which she 
thought were dead for ever. She 
had lived, nnd she could live with- 
out the excitement of passion, but 
the one love of which she was 
capable, an abiding, unselfish, 
faithful afiection liad been given 
to Yaughan long years before, and 
so much as even a passing fancy 
she had never felt for another. 

So now, although the freshness, 
and the beauty of her youth were 
gone; although she knew him as 
perhaps she never could have known 
nim when the illusions of youth 
were blinding her, she felt that to 
be something near and dear to 
him, to know that she had the 
power to fill the blanks left in his 
life, and in his home, by the 
inevitable changes which time 
brings round, made her happier 
than she had ever been. 

Meanwhile he was waiting for 
her answer as impatiently as a 
young lover might have done. 
''Eleanor," he exclaimed at last, 
*' why do you not speak to me ? 
Are you fancying what the world 
will say of sober middle age break- 
ing out into romance? Let it 


The Iriih Star ChamUr. 


laugh if it will. Ah ! if you knew 
how I miss you, and how I long for 
you at home ; if you knew how 
unhappy it makes me to be 

'^ And if you knew how happy it 
makes me to be with you," she in- 
terrupted freeing her hands from 

his, but only, to dasp them lovingly 
round his arm. 

Then he stooped, and their lips 
for the first time in a lover's kiss. 

And as in her youth her happi- 
ness had been marred, so now in 
middle life it was made, by a Shadow 
on the Wall. 

The End. 


ENflLTSH lawyers living at the ac- 
cession of James the First may well 
be excused for setting a high value 
on the power of the Crown. They 
had seen private war abolished, and 
the nobles reduced to their right 
position, trade developed, Spain 
humbled, Scotland rendered harm- 
less, the supremacy of the State 
over the Church surely established, 
and England made glorious by sea 
and land. And it was the royal 
power in the vigorous hands of the 
Tudors that had done most of this. 
Authority had indeed been often 
abused; but peace and order had 
at any rate been maintained, and 
the mass of the people were satis- 
fied. Towards the end of Elizabeth's 
reign, the increase of monopolies 
had become a grievous burden, but 
the great Queen had yielded, timely 
and gracefully, as she knew so well 
how to do, and with that honest re- 
gard for her people's welfare which 
goes far to cover her many faults. 
It is well that there was not a suc- 
cession of sovereigns at once so 

fond of power, so able, and so dis- 
creet, or our fathers might have 
been content to abide by £e flesh- 
pots and to lose their liberties al- 
most without knowing it. 

The king's council, disguised 
under the name of the Star Chamber, 
had been one of the strongest 
weapons in the hands of the Tudor 
sovereigns. The union of the ex- 
ecutive and judicial authority in the 
same body was extremly dangerous, 
yet at first it was very useful in re- 
pressing the insolence of those 
powerful subjects with which the 
ordinary tribunals had shown them- 
selves too weak to deal Preroga- 
tive, with its searching interrogatories 
and summary process, went straight 
to the point, while law and its twelve 
honest men sometimes lagged 
falteringly behind. The usurpation 
was for a time acquiesced in. But 
even under Elizabeth the jurisdic- 
tion had been much abused; and 
the evil part which it played after 
Bacon had prostituted his im- 
measurable powers to build up the 


The Irish Star Chamber, 


imbecile tyranny of the Staarts, has 
made the name of Star Chamber in- 
&mou8. It was found impossible 
to reviye it at the Restoration. 

Statesmen, having deliberately 
undertaken to make Ireland as 
exact a copy of England as possible, 
were not likely to neglect so useful 
an instrument, and accordingly we 
find both Queen Elizabeth and the 
Lord Lieutenant, Sussex, recom- 
mending the establishment of such 
^a eonrt as early as I66d, and it was in 
actual operation dve years later. It 
continued to sit for the purpose for 
which it was originally instituted, the 
punishment of *' riots and perjuries,*' 
sometimes nodoubt acting arbitrarily 
enough. Jurors, for instance, were 
fined, imprisoned and pilloried for 
giving verdicts contrary to the 
evidence. This continued to be 
the established practice, and Straf- 
ford made it the meana of enormous 
extortion. In the last years of the 
Queen, one Sedgrave, a baron of 
the Exchequer, was brought before 
the Castle Chamber, and deprived 
of his office, with fine and imprison- 
ment, for corrupt conduct on the 
trial of a cause affecting the title to 
the manor of Dunshaughlin, which 
he hoped to get possession of him> 
self. Immediately after the acces- 
sion of James, the Court was 
turned to a new use. Messrs. 
Russell and Prendergast's Calendar 
of State Papers relating to this 
reign enable ns, with some help 
firom other sources, to gain a clear 
view of this curious episode, in 
which the Irish Star Chamber went 
beyond its great original. 

The only means of enforcing 
religious uniformity at this time 
available in Ireland was the Act 2 
£liz. Officials indeed could be 
bound to take the oath, acknowledg- 
ing the Royal supremacy, but for 
recusants in general the only pun- 
ishment was a fine of one shilling 
for each Sunday that they absented 
themselves from Church. Small as 

the sum was, the cost of recovering 
it was considerable, and Sir John 
Davys was of opinion that the poor 
country would be unable to bear the 
burden if it were generally imposed. 
Yet even making allowance for costs, 
and also for the change in the value 
of money, such a punishment could 
hardly weigh very heavily on the 
upper classes. Under the Queen 
there had been scarcely any attempt 
to interfere with the private exercise 
of the Roman religion in Ireland, 
and when the new reign began, the 
people professed to believe that thej 
would enjoy a fuller toleration. In 
all the southern towns, Jesuits and 
priests abounded, and at their 
instigation a vigorous and general 
attempt was made to set up the 
Mass publicly. This was put 
down by Mountjoy with the strength 
of his hand rather than of his argu- 
ments, for he tried both, and the 
Protestant character of the new 
dynasty was thus established. It 
remained to be seen whether the 
conscience of private persons would 
be further interfered with. The 
matter was not long left in doubt. 
Sir Henry Brouncker, an arbitrary 
and bigoted and apparently not 
very honest man, succeeded the wise 
and politic Carew in the govern- 
ment of Munster. He lost no time 
in showing his zeal, and as early as 
Aug. 14,1604, issued a proclamation 
commanding all priests to leave the 
province before the last day of Sep- 
tember, and not to re-enter it for seven 
years. Any person harbouring 
them after the appointed date, 
was to forfeit £10 for each offence, 
half to the Crown and half to the 
infonqer. Any person who brought 
the body of one to the Lord 
President was to be rewarded. By 
the wording of this document, it 
would seem that a man might 
murder a priest, and then claim 
the reward, but even Brouncker 
can hardly have intended this ; £40 
was the price of a Jesuit ; £6 St. 4 J. 


The Irish Star Chamber. 


of a semmaiy, and £5 of an 
ordinary mass priest This pro- 
clamation was undoubtedly illegal, 
for the English statute, 27 Eliz., 
had never been adopted by an Irish 
parliament Some servile lawyers 
suggested that Poyning*s Act could 
be so construed as to make laws sub- 
sequently passed in England, bind- 
ing on Ireland but this portion 
could not be seriously maintained. 

The Lord President continued 
to govern Munster in this fashion 
for nearly three years, when the 
English Council were obliged to 
tell him that he was acting impru- 
dently and without warrant of law, 
and to bid him stay his hand. Even 
while writing this, my lords were 
careful to guard against the suppo- 
sition that they were favourable to 
toleration, and to point out that ex- 
pediency was their sole guide in 
the matter. The effect of Broun- 
cker s vigour, which was little 
abated by these rebukes, created a 
great many sham proselytes who 
bowed themselves for a while in the 
house of Rimmon. Poor Sir Richard 
Monrson, who administered the 
province after Brouncker*s death, 
complained bitterly that these pliant 
subjects had reverted to the old ways. 

On the 4th of July, 1605, a black 
day in the Irish calendar. King 
James put forth his famous pro- 
clamation against liberty of con- 
science. 'All priests of papal or- 
dination were ordered to leave the 
kingdom by the 10th of December, 
and not to return. After that date 
all officials were to arrest them and 
their harbourers. There was no 
means of escape left but by con- 
forming and going to church. The 
proclamation was not allowed to 
remain a dead letter, and legal in- 
genuity devised a novel means of 
giving it due effect Sir John 
Davys was now the junior law- 
officer in Ireland. Once he had 
opposed Monopolies from his seat 
in Parliament, but — 

"As bees on flowers alighting cease 

their hum 
'* So Whigs in office suddenly grow 


and there was a great gulf £xed be- 
tween plain Mr. Davys, the popular 
M.P., and Sir John Davys his 
majesty's Solicitor-General. Arbi- 
trary power generally finds a con- 
verted opponent the most efficient 
of instruments. A form of man- 
date under the Privy Seal was drawn ^ 
up and put to various recusants, in 
which the king is made to charge 
his subjects *' on the faith and allegi- 
ance by which you are bound to us, 
and by authority of our prerogative 
royal (all excuses and delays set 
apart) upon the next Sunday, after 
sight hereof, &c.,*' and on all other 
Sundays and holidays to attend the 
parish church and remain during 
the whole service. The alternative 
was to attend the mayor to the 
cathedral, and to stay through the 
service in sight of the Lord De- 
puty and Council. The recipients 
of these mandates are finally ex- 
horted to obey them *' upon pain of 
our high displeasure and indigna- 
tion, and of such further punish- 
ments as are to be inflicted upon 
contemners of our laws, statutes, 
proclamations, aud royal preroga- 

Among the citizens of Dublin 
who received this royal gift were 
five aldermen, two merchants, and 
a gentleman named Bassett. The 
provincial presidents were ordered 
to proceed in the same manner, 
and Brouncker made free use of 
the power in Munster. One of the 
Dublin aldermen, by a singular 
coincidence, bore the name of John 
Elliott, another was John Skelton, 
or Shelton, who had been mayor, 
and had been superseded for refus- 
ing the oath ex-officio. All de- 
clined to obey, alleging that they 
had been brought up in the Romish 
religion and that it was against their 


!%« Irish Star Chamber. 


coDflcieDce to go to church, or to 
bear service and sermons. The 
aldermen were fined £100 each, 
«Qd the merchants £50, half to the 
use of the Protestant church and 
half to the king, and were im- 
prisoned during pleasure. Mr. 
Philip Bassett, " heing English 
and a principal persuader of others 
to recusancpr,** was fined £50, and 
ordered besides '* within thirty days 
to withdraw himself or be sent into 
England, to be governed under the 
laws under which he was born, and 
never to return again into this king- 
dom.** Sir Charles Calthorpe, the 
Attorney- General, was satisfied with 
what had been done, or perhaps 
he did not really like the business. 
There is no more lamentable sight 
than a weak attorney - general, 
coupled with a strong solicitor, and 
the difference was very apparent on 
this occasion. Calthorpe contented 
himself with a perfunctory discharge 
<»f his duties, but Sir John Davys 
was so much in love with the pro- 
clamation and mandates that he 
made a long speech, attempting to 
justify what had been done by an 
array of precedents which were 
nothing to the purpose, though 
they served to display his learning. 
Neither Sur John nor any one else 
could show that the kings of Eng- 
land, though they might resist 
papal encroachments, had ever 
been grand inquisitors. 

While presiding in the Star Cham- 
ber on this occasion. Sir Arthur 
Chichester received a letter from 
Salisbury announcing the discovery 
of the Gunpowder plot. The inci- 
dent was most opportune, and the 
Lord Deputy immediately ordered 
the news to be published in every 
direction. This conspiracy was very 
unfortunate for the Irish Roman Ca- 
tholics, and in some degree palliates 
the severity of the Government. It 
is indeed tolerably certain that no 
Irishman was concerned ; but Gar- 
net, the provincial of the English 

Jesuits, was implicated, and Ireland 
was full of members of that order. 
It was perhaps suspiciously remem- 
bered that there had been a stir 
among the priests in Connaught 
just before St. Bartholomew, and 
that the massacre had found many 
sympathisers there. There was, 
therefore, good cause for suspicion. 
The proclamation had, however, 
been issued, and the mandates pro- 
mulgated before the detection of 
Catesbyand his associates. Within 
a week five more recusants were 
fined and imprisoned in the same 

Meanwhile the gentry of the 
Pale, the old English, who, in the 
darkest days of Scotch invasions 
and Irish encroachments, had re- 
mained faithful to the Crown, had 
taken fright at the attack on their 
religion. They had borne great 
and unequal taxation to support a 
Government, which could plunder 
but could not protect them. They 
had known the horrors of unpaid 
troops at free quarters, whose ser- 
vices by no means made up for 
their extortions. But this new 
oppression was more than they 
could bear, and they resolved to 
petition the Lord Deputy for some 
relief. A paper was accordingly 
drawn up by Richard Netterville, 
with the advice and help of Lords 
Gormanston and Louth, of an old 
lawyer named Bumell, and above 
all of Sir Patrick Barnewell. When 
the petition had received the last 
corrections the signatures of five 
peers and two hundred and six gen- 
tlemen were appended, and it was 
presented to Chichester, not by its 
principal contrivers, but by four of 
the subscribers, a Dillon, a Sars- 
field, a Finglas, and a Nugent. 
The document, having been drafted 
some time before, contained no 
allusion to the Gunpowder plot, but 
disclaimed the notion that the 
priests had attempted to tamper 
with the petitioners* civil allegiance. 


The Irish 'Star Chamber. 


or that the latter would have listeDed 
to such insinuations. In respeetfol 
language the King was asked to 
make further inquiry before inter- 
fering with the private eonsoiefice 
of faithful subjects, and this prayer 
was followed by an earnest and 
solemn declaration of unswerving 

To our ideas nothieg seems more 
proper than such a petition, but 
this was not the opinion of Chi- 
chester and Da^s. Those who 
presented the paper were sharply 
reproved, and were then dismissed 
until the ringleaders should have 
been examined * some of them 
were afterwards imprisoned. Lord 
Gormanston and Sir P. Bamewell, 
with Netterville, Bumell, and Flats- 
bury, came before the Council and 
defended themselves boldly. They 
were then committed to prison 
until the next meeting of the Star 
Chamber. Lords Gormanston and 
Tiimleston who signed the peti- 
tion, and Lords Killeen and Louth 
who appear not to have • done so, 
in the meantime wrote a joint letter 
to Salisbury desiring his inter- 
ference. They declared their loy-' 
alty, protested against a consci- 
entious refusal to go to church 
being treated as an outrageous 
contempt or heinous riot, com- 
plained bitterly of domiciliHry visits 
must harshly conducted, and of an 
innovation in the practice of the 
Star Chamber, which had never 
before been used as a spiritual con- 
sistory. Lord Gormanston, who 
was young and of high courage, 
pressed the Irish Government for 
an answer to the petition ; but this 
was held a further contempt. Sir 
Patrick Bamewell, who from hence- 
forth took the lead, wrote to Salis- 
bury from his prison in the Castle, 
protesting against tlie new fangled 
practices of the Star Chamber, pro- 
phesying most truly that they would 
lead to a rebellion at some distant 
date. He ascribed the mischief 

largely to the machinations of Sir 
James Ley, the Chief Justice, *' a 
man generally behated,'* who had 
denied copies of their indictments 
to accused persons. Chichester and 
his advisers of course held their 
itgis over the Lord Chief Justice, 
wbom they found useful, but I do 
not find that they clear him of this 
serious charge. There is an affi- 
davit couched in very solemn lan- 
guage ftbm nine citizens of Dublin, 
whodeclare thatthey had themselves 
been refused copies of their indict- 
ments by Ley, and expressing some 
apprehension lest " terror and fear 
of the threats and rigour used at 
these times ** should prevent those 
present from corroborating their 
testimony; Two of these witnesses 
did, nevertheless, sign the affidavit. 
The English Council on learning 
these events advised Chichester 
to proceed with more moderation. 
To grant any toleration would in- 
deed be most offensive, dangerous, 
and repugnant to good conscience. 
But considering how deeply rooted 
Romanist superstitions were in Ire- 
land it would be wise to temporise. 
Priests and friars were to be got 
rid of if possible, but the search for 
them was not to be too curious. 
An example might be made now 
and then, but argument was on the 
whole preferable to brute force. 
The lords and gentlemen in prison 
might be released, but Sir P. BaTne- 
well was to be sent to London. 
This important paper is signed by 
no less than seventeen Privy Coun- 
cillors, including Ellesmere, Salis- 
biiiy, and Popham. It was not the 
first nor last time that the larger 
wisdom of imperial statesmen has 
modified the action of an Irish 
Government. But these grandees, 
who sat at home at ease, were but 
lookers on ; they might see more of 
the game, but had not to bear the 
burden and heat of it. The Irish 
Star Chamber went on fining and 
imprisoning recusants, aldermen of 


The Irish Star Chamber, 


'Dublin being tbe chief victims. 
But these attentions were not con- 
fined to office holder:^. Any man 
in a good social position was in 
danger, the object being to strike 
down the tall poppies. It was 
thought that if the leaders of the 
people could be brought low, the 
fine of a shilling a Sunday might 
be sufficient argument for the rank 
and file. But new difficulties arose 
d«ily. It was found that those who 
incurred the frown of power very 
generally made conveyance of their 
goods to children, servants, or 
friends, not reserving even their 
clothes and antedating the deeds 
so as to give them an appearance 
of authenticity. There were thus 
no goods upon which the sh^rifif 
coo)d make his levies in satisfaction 
of tbe Star Chamber decrees. The 
juiy empanelled to value property 
for the purpose of these decrees 
found that tbe deeds were good. 
Whereupon the Star Chamber took 
another bold step, and of its own 
authority declared the conveyances 
void i^ainst the king. Sir John 
Davys considered this 'Hhe best 
precedent and example that had 
been made in that kingdom for 
many years." 

These assignments of property in 
fraudem domini regis were not the 
only devices of the persecuted re- 
cusants. Richard Netterville, who, 
on account of his age, had been con- 
fined in his own house, had mass 
said there by a priest hidden be- 
hind a curtain, so that he might 
be able to swear he had not seen 
the proscribed cleric. Netterville 
was then sent to the Castle, and 
Thomas Luttrell, of Luttrellstown, 
a name of sinister note in the later 
history of Ireland, was also com- 
mitted. Chichester admits that 
after all his trouble he had not 
driven one priest out of the coun- 
try ; it was in vain to search, ** every 
town, hamlet, and house, being to 
them a sanctuary.*' 

Sir Patrick Bam e well mean \^ bile 
declined to make any submission. 
Being brought before the Council, 
Chichester told him there was good 
reason to suspect that some men in 
Ireland were privy to the Gunpow- 
der plot, and that the great con- 
course of recusant gentlemen to 
Dublin was caused by a scheme to 
seize the Government in case the 
plot succeeded. The fact is, as we 
know from Davys, that people were 
at this time beginning to resort to 
Dublin for social purposes, to talk 
and to hear the news; a change 
caused by the peaceful state of the 
country. Bamewell answered that 
the '* Deputy 8 speech was wire- 
drawing and without probability or 

Archbishop Jones, now Lord 
Chancellor, next took him in hand, 
pressing him as to his theological 
opinions, and incautiously calling 
Anglicanism *' the king's religion." 

♦' That," said Sir Patrick, ♦» is a 
profane speech," and it must be 
owned that he hit the Archbishop 

Chief Justice Ley then attacked 
him with threats of the king*s dis- 
pleasure. Bamewell hated Ley, ^d 
promptly told him to '* leave his 
carping,"*' bringing down his hand 
emphatically at the same time on 
the cushion which lay before the 
Lord Deputy. He was too much 
for them all, and though Sir John 
Davys was of opinion that his 
imagination was a little crazed 
either out of malice or out of an 
immoderate estimate of himself, 
there was certainly nothing crasj 
in his manner of conducting the 
business in hand. 

Chichester and his council were 
not sorry to send Bamewell over 
to London, where his expenses. were 
paid by the country. £1,^200 was 
said to be the sum required — a very 
large one in those days. While 
Salisbuiy was making up his mind 
how to deal with this formidable 


he Irish Star CJiamber. 


recusant Sir John Davys went 
circait in Munster, where he was 
associated in the commission with 
Chief Justice Walsh. The only 
part of his very interesting account 
of this journey, which now concerns 
ns, is that at Limerick a jury were 
bound to appear before the Star 
(Hiamber for failing to agree in an 
important case. Many hundreds 
were fined under 2 Eliz. for not 
going to church in all parts of the 
South, and at Limerick the money 
thus raised went to repair the 
cathedral — the convicts had to 
build the walls of their own 

Not long after Bameweirs arrival 
in London, he was committed to 
the Tower. His more crafty sym- 
pathisers gave out that he was 
under no restraint, but staying 
voluntarily in the capital for the 
furtherance of Catholic interests. 
The priests collected money for him 
all over the country — a foretaste of 
the •* rent *' — and the Irish Govern- 
ment urged the Council to severe 
measures. The advice was not 
taken. Some of the English judges 
— those probably who were certain 
to say what would please the Court — 
were consulted and gave an opinion 
favourable to the legality of the 
mandates. But the prudent Cecil 
knew better, though he covered his 
retreat thus. Sir Patrick was re- 
leased from the Tower, and after 
being kept for a time at large in 
London, and suffering a short 
detention in the Fleet, wa^ allowed 
to return to Ireland, after giving 
his bond to appear before the Lord 
Deputy within four days of his 

There seems to be some doubt 
whether he was really employed as 
an agent by the Irish Roman 
Catholics. The English Council 
thought not, or he would hardly 
have been so anxious to get home. 
£32 had been collected for him in 
Waterford alone, and Sir R. Moryson 

was of opinion that if other places 
contributed at the same rate,Barne- 
well would probably not care much 
how long the negotiations lasted. 
Both views may have been right ; Sir 
Patrick's friends in Ireland may have 
been anxious to make use of his 
agency, while he himself did not 
wish to stay in London to the neg- 
lect of his own affairs. There was 
a discrepancy between his own ac- 
count of what had taken place, and 
that given by the Lords of the 
Council. They ^aid he had made 
his submission ; he said he had 
made, and would make none, though 
he appeared before the Lord Deputy 
according to agreement Chichester 
could make nothing of him, and 
had to confine himself to vague 
accusations of popularity-hunting 
and of attracting attention by an 
unusual train of attendants. Sir 
Patrick retorted that he had but 
his usual half-dozen servants, and 
that the fact of such a trifle being 
brought up against him showed a 
disposition to prejudice his case. 
Chichester at last seems to have 
determined to let him alone, the 
mandates were quietly dropped, and 
Bamewell was molested no further. 

Four years later, in 1611, he was 
engaged in the settlement of the 
county of Longford, and seems to 
have been on pretty good terms with 
the authorities. A paper in Sir 
George Carew*s handwriting, giving 
an account of the meeting of the 
Irish Parliament in 1613, mentions 
him as taking a forward part against 
the packing of the House of Com- 
mons by a wholesale creation of 
new boroughs, as formerly against 
the mandates; and that he had 
written letters declaring that the 
new modelled legislature would re- 
duce Ireland to perpetual thraldom. 
In the same paper it is noted that 
Sur Patrick was the first man of 
fortune in Ireland who had sent his 
sons to be educated abroad. The 


The Irish Star Chamber. 


dragon*8 teeth for the harvest of 
1641 were already sown. 

. Little can be said for the legality 
of the Star Chamber mandates, the 
opinions of judges and law officers 
notwithstanding. An elaborate de- 
fence of these proceedings was 
drawn up in Dublin and transmitted 
to the £nglish Council. It does 
not appear who is responsible for 
this paper ; but it is exactly in Sir 
John Davys' manner, and he was 
at hand, so it is reasonable to sup- 
pose that no favourable precedent 
was overlooked. This piece of 
special pleading begins by con- 
sidering the nature of the mandates 
themselves, and finds it to be three- 

First— the magistrates and other 
principal citizens were to attend the 
mayor to church ; this is said to be 
their ordinary duty, and no doubt 
when there was no difference of 
religion it might very well be so. 

Secondly — it was Uie duty of such 
persons to appear before ihe Lord 
Deputy in the church ; this is called 
a civil and not a spiritual duty, and 
it is suggested Uiat at all events 
they might have gone to the church 
door. The writer probably called 
to mind a speech made by Robert 
Earl of Essex, at Waterford, where 
the mayor, having accompanied the 
Lord Lieutenant to the church door, 
excused himself from entering on 
conscientious grounds. ** It is not 
my business to meddle with any 
man's conscience,'* answered the 
magnificent earl, in nearly the same 
words as were afterwards used by 
Oliver Cromwell. But the prece- 
dent, such as it was, did not much 
help the case for the Crown. 

'l*hirdly — the magistrates and 
others were to abide in church 
during service. This is not a very 
logical division, for going to the 
church door and staying out the 
service are very different things. 
Indeed the argument reminds one 
of an old bar story which recounts 

how in an action of trover for a 
kettle the defendant put in three 
pleas, that he had never had the 
utensil in his possession, that he 
had given it back, and that it was 
his own. llie ground upon which 
the requisition to sit through the 
service is defended is too rich to be 

" The third part is merely a civil 
duty, and not a spiritual, for it be- 
hoveth in proving an action to be 
spiritual, that it be proved that the 
nature of the action is spiritual ; for 
the church being the place, the hour 
of saying divine service being the 
time, are but circumstances, and no 
part of the nature of the action. 
But the very action itself is the 
abiding in church during divine 
service, which containeth no spiritual 
action therein, for he is not cont" 
tnanded to hear or give attention^ to 
pray or yield adoration ; only he is 
commanded to behave himself so- 
berly and modestly, which he ought 
to do at all times, and in all 

A clever man must indeed be hard 
pressed before he could write such 
nonsense as this. Protestants 
rightly condemn Jesuitical casuistry 
as dangerous to moral rectitude, but 
surely no disciple of Escobar or 
Suarez ever twisted poor words to 
worse purpose. 

Again, Chichester's advisers say : 
— ''If a Bomist in religion do 
profess his own religion and protest 
against that of the State, yet hears 
their sermons and sees their service 
per viam obedientiw^ and not per 
viam comprohaiionis^ until he obtain 
better satisfaction, he cannot justly 
be called a hypocrite." Would 
Jeremy Taylor have been able to 
swallow this? The whole of this 
argument may be disposed of by 
the fact that Bamewell and his 
friends denied the legality of the 
mandates, quite apart from the law- 
fulness of their contents. Davys 
tries to meet this by quoting ^re- 


The Irish Star Chamber. 


cedents, showing how the preroga- 
tive had been often stretched in 
early times. But even supposing 
that any number of precedents 
CQuld make such laws, these do not 
really touch the private rights of 
conscience. That which is most to 
the point is one of Edward the 
First, where the Cistercian abbots 
were forbidden to visit their chief 
house in Burgundy, as their rule 
commanded ; and obviously this 
has no bearing on cases where there 
is an actual difference of religion 
between king and people. Besides 
there is a great difference between 
the negative and the positive; 
Edward led the horse to the water, 
James tried to make him drink. 
The whole of this long document 
is, however, well worth reading, as 
an early specimen of the sore of 
reasoning which culminated in 
Noy's argument in the case of ship- 
money. If the practice of kings 
were to be the measure of legality. 
Acts of Parliament, and indeed 
Parliaments themselves, would be 
mere surplusage. Slet pro ratione 
polunfat. But it was felt that the 
9iandates could not be maintained, 
and Chichester and Davys only 

made a noise to hide their discom- 
fiture. The Irish Star Chamber 
continued to be arbitrary enongh, 
but its action in this direcUon was 

■ The Church of Rome in power 
has not been remarkable for her 
longsuffering towards dissentients ; 
but circumstances have obliged her, 
when in a minority, to demand the 
toleration which she is so slow to 
grant. Protestant Churches have 
also been oppressive and oppressed 
in turn, thus all have been some- 
times obliged to use the language of 
moderation, and each revolution of 
the wheel has advanced the good 
cause. The battle is now well nigh 
won, its results are at all events no 
longer doubtful, but we must not 
forget those who in darker days 
fought and often fell in the van. 
The name of Sir Patrick Bamewell 
deserves a line in the golden book 
which records those of More and 
Fisher, of Coligny and Sidney, and 
William the Silent, and of all that 
chosen band who in many lands 
and many ages have faced the frown 
of power in the holy names of 
freedom and law. 

B. Bagwell. 

1877.] The Sportsman in Ancient Greece and Italy. 




By W. Khiohton. 

Wb seem nowadays to be merely 
reproducing the speculations of the 
earliest dawn of philosophy in 
Greece, as Professor Tyndall has 
shown us at some length. Were 
not the atoms of Democritus the 
first explanation of Dalton*s Atomic 
Theory? Did not Lucretius assert 
the existence of latent heat? And 
what are all the splendid specula- 
tions of Oken and Geoffrey, Goethe 
and Lamarck, Darwin and Wallace, 
but repetitions of Plato's theory of 
original forms? Doubtless there 
has been a yery considerable ad- 
vance in the collection and com- 
parison of -facts, but whoever studies 
the Natural History of the Greeks 
must be struck also with the truth, 
that the ultimate questions which 
presented themselves to the an- 
cients, present themselves also to us, 
and that we do not appear to be 
much nearer a satisfactory solution 
now, than they were then. 

The modem doctrine of develop- 
ment teaches us that we are only 
fishes in a higher stage. Plutarch 
tells a story which illustrates that. 
Anaximander, he says, taught that 
mankind were originally bom of 
fishes, and that when they had been 
nourished sufficiently, and had be- 
come able to take care of them- 
selves, or^ in modem language, 
when they had reached a proper 
stage of development, they were 
then cast forth and took to the 

land — hence the philosopher taught 
that fishes were the parents of man- 
kind, and forbade his disciples to 
eat them. 

Aristotle, too,. in his treatise on 
the Soul (lib. 2, ch. 4), suggests 
the idea of spontaneous genera- 
tion, but seems to have confined it 
to the lowAr and rudimentary orders 
of animals. As Professor Thomp- 
son showed us a few years ago, how- 
ever, we only require to obtain the 
simplest and most rudimentary of 
animal forms, in order to lead us, 
in necessary progressions, to the 
higher, to all the varied forms of 
animal life that people the globe. 

Doubtless our method of regard- 
ing things differs in toto from that 
of our predecessors. Longer space, 
longer time, slower movement, finer 
gradation, than were formerly dreamt 
of, have everywhere to be admitted. 
Among objects, nothing isolated — 
in events, nothing sudden — a web 
of infinitelv extended relations, in 
which this is part of the same mesh 
with that, a history of infinitely di- 
visible changes in which to-day is 
bom of yesterday, and the shifting 
shadows glide and never leapr — 
these are some of the new aspects' 
under which modem knowledge 
presents the system of the world. 
Butthe great fundamental questions 
remain the same. The mighty 
Stagy rite grappled with those ques- 
tions, as did Lucretius. But the 


The Sportsman in Ancient Greece and Italy. [Feb* 

questions remain unanswered still, 
notwithstanding the light thrown 
upon them by Cuvier and by Lyall, 
by Kant, Hegel, and Darwin. 

These considerations present 
themselves with extraordinary force, 
when one examines the life of 
Greece and Bome, as developed in 
^eir cities. Doubtless we have 
steam now, and the electric tele- 
graph, and sanitary committees, 
and a host of modem inventions 
unknown to Athens or to Rome. 
But who that has stood on Mount 
Palatine, or on the Acropolis, can 
doubt that even the recurring 
problems of social life are 'pretty 
much the same now as they were 
then ? And if this reflection holds 
true of the city life, how much 
more of the life of the fields and 

We skirt the Bay of Naples as 
we go down to Pompeii. We see 
Ischia and Capri in the distance — 
the same sea, Uie same sky that Ci- 
eero and Horace saw, when they 
made the same journey. We may 
travel faster, if we go by railway to 
Salerno, but the same scenes are 
reproduced, the sea and sky to the 
eight, Vesuvius to the left, and 
beauty everywhere. 

Seneca and Phsedrus both lived 
in Pompeii. As we walk along the 
streets and meditate over the Fo- 
nmi, as they did, treading the same 
stones, we naturally call to mind 
what Seneca said, " movemur enim 
nescio quo pacto locis ipsis, in qui- 
bus eorum, quos diligimus, aut 
admiramur adsunt vestigia." 

But still there is a sense in 
which our city-life much differs now 
from the city-life of eighteen hun- 
dred years ago. Navigation, the 
inter-communication of countries, 
the facility of travelling introduced 
by the railroads, all have combined 
to make the life of London and 
Paris different in many essential 
particulars from that of ancient 
Athens and of Bome. 

There is much less of this feeling 
when we turn to nature and to the 
country. Those who have travelled 
in the vast forests of India, over the 
deserts of Afirica, or through the 
g^at plains of Northern Italy, or of 
die Danube, see nature now pretty 
much as it was seen by the students- 
of nature, who lived in the time of 
Pericles, of Cicero, or of Belisarius. 

The chase of wild animals, the 
mimic warfare of the forest and of 
the plain, has always been popular 
with civilized man. It is noble 
when it seeks to remove beasts 
dangerous to man, or injurious to 
his welfare. It is noble too when it 
is undertaken to sapply food to tribes 
who have no other means of suste- 
nance. It degenerates into cruelty 
and wantonness, when it slaughters, 
without danger to the slaughterer, 
hundreds of harmless and inoffen- 
sive victims. The civilization of 
Greece and Bome, as well as the 
civilization of modem Europe and 
England, has led to the same abuser 
in Uiis latter respect. 

Lions, leopards and bears were 
hunted by the ancient Greeks and 
Bomans, just as they are hunted by 
us. Allowing for the disparity of 
weapons available then, we may say 
that the chase in those ancient 
times was far more dangerous than 
it is now. Lions have long since- 
disappeared from Europe, and we 
have no historical evidence to show 
that they were ever common in 
Greece. There can be no doubt 
however that they were found in 
Thrace, within the district lying be- 
tween the rivers Nestus and 
Achelous, a fact confirmed by the 
testimony of Herodotus and of 
other ancient writers. 

In Asia Minor they were more 
common, as the frequent allusions 
in Homer abundantly prove. 

If any one will take the trouble 
to examine the accounts given of 
these animals by Xenophon, 
Aristotle, Arrian and Oppian, he- 

1877.] The Sportsman in Ancient Greece and Italy, 


will see how little our knowledge 
of them has been increased since 
then. We have to ask ourselves 
now the same questions, to struggle 
with the same doubts, to guess at 
the solution of the same problems, 
as perplexed the naturalists of old. 

It is a common practice in India 
at the present day for the village 
braves to turn out at night, headed 
by the chowkedar, or watchman, to 
await and attack some tiger or 
hyaena that has been specially 
destructive to their crops, their 
children, or their fellow-citizens. 
The same practice exactly, prevailed 
in ancient Greece and Asia Minor. 
During the night the beasts forsake 
their lairs in tlie forests, to come to 
some pool or river, in order to as- 
suage their thirst. The tracks 
made by them and their ancestors 
are usually well worn, and the 
natives know well the times at 
which they may be expected. 

Pitfalls in ancient times, as at 
present, were often made for their 
capture. A large round and deep 
hole was dug in the earth, having a 
little momiid in the middle below, 
on which a goat was tied as a bait. 
The whole was usually surrounded 
by a hedge to prevent the animals 
seeing their danger, and to add to 
their desire by the inteiposition of 
a little difficulty. For in this 
respect lions, tigers, leopards and 
bears are like men. The wild 
beast, hearing the bleating of the 
goat, is attracted to the spot. He 
goes round the hedge and smells 
tbe bait. He leaps and falls into 
the pit, from which he cannot es- 

I was travelling through the 
jungles on the north-eastern frontier 
of Oudh in India, not far from the 
confines of Nepal. I was on an 
elephant, for there was no road, 
noUiing but primeval forest all 
around. About the middle of the 
day we were drawing near a villaoe 
that subsisted on tbe miserable 

commerce carried on surreptitiouslj 
between Oudh and Nepal, for the 
Nepal authorities are very jealous^ 
and do their utmost to dis- 
courage trading between the Anglo- 
Indian possessions and their own 
territories. The elephant on which 
I was riding became restive, and 
showed signs of fear. He wanted 
to swerve from our course, and 
groaned as he was struck to keep 
him in it — struck by an iron spike 
hammered into his head. " There 
is some wild beast about. Saheb," 
said the mahout or native driver. 
*' He must keep straight on," said 
I, looking after my firearms, with- 
out which I never travelled in the 

We soon came upon the can^c of 
the elephant^s terror. A female 
leopard and two cubs were in a pit, 
evidently dug by the villagers, and it 
was right hi our path. The two little 
ones must have clung to their 
mother, as she made the fatal leap» 
The leopard had evidently been 
nearly famished, she was gaunt and 
bony, and had nearly devoured a kid 
left in the pit as a decoy. The young 
ones were gay and frolicsome. I 
shot the mother, and took home the 
cubs with me to my tent, where I 
carefully brought them up by hand. 
I tried to get a bitch I then had 
with pups, to suckle them, but she 
disliked them from the first, and 
violently objected, especially when 
they opened out their incipien t claws,, 
and playfully dug them into her. 

Lions, leopards and bears in the 
olden time, were also hunted by 
men on horseback armed with, 
spears, and they were sometimes 
taken in strong nets. Illustrations 
of this method of hunting may be 
seen in Montfaucon's "Antiquities.'* 
In one of the plates of that work 
a lion may be seen, represented as 
standing with his fore-feet upon a 
large circular shield, beneath which 
crouches a fallen hunter, exactly as 
a bear has been seen trying to get 


The Sportsman in Ancient Greece and Italy. [Feb, 

ajb a tortoise. Several men with 
spears, and shields as tall as them- 
selves, stand in a row close together, 
each with his head overtopping the 
shield, watching the adversary. 
Another hunter is kneeling guarded 
by his shield, expecting the lion to 
attack him next, whilst aixother 
runs rapidly away with his shield 
on his back. The lion is evidently 
disappointed and annoyed that he 
cannot get at the prostrate hupter, 
vho ia completely hidden by his 
huge shield, which he has contrived 
to throw over him as he fell. 

Xenophon says, that leopards, 
lynxes, and panthers were caught in 
the mountains of Pangseus and 
Cittus beyond Macedonia, on Mount 
Findus, and in the neighbourhood 
<^f Olympus in Mysia. The tiger 
was not known to the Greeks before 
the expedition of Alexander. The* 
^man Emperor Claudius exhibited 
four tigers at one time on the stage 
of the amphitheatre, but i^s beasts of 
€t^e chase neither Greek nor Roman 
hunters bad. any acquaintance, 
with these animals^ though 
they were aware of. the methods 
used by the hunters of India to en- 
t^p and to slay them. The venaiio 
<ium specula must have been a 
peculiarly dangerous pastime, when 
pursued for the destruction or 
capture of the leopard. It is 
represented, by Montfaucon, and 
alluded to by Claudian. A mirror 
was held up to the enraged animal 
by the hunter, when they came to 
close quarters, and the image of 
itself presented by the mirror, 
arrested the attention of the 
leopard — 

Jam jamque hanstara profondo 
Ore virum, vitreas tardatur imagine 

The Chinese are said to practise 
this strange metliod of hunting 

ThO' chase of the wild boar was 
perhaps the most popular with the 

hunters of Greece and Home, The 
danger accompanying his capture 
enhanced the pleasure of the chase, 
so that all the earnest pleadings 
of the goddess of Love could not 
turn away Adonis from the pursuit 
Large and strong dogs were used 
for this purpose. Xenophon par- 
ticularly recommends Indian, 
Locrian, Cretan, and Spartan breeds 
— the two former were celebrated 
for their courage and strength, and 
the latter for their keen sense of 
smell. Very strong nets were 
necessary, besides javelins and 
spears, furnished with guards 
where the iron and wood met, in 
order to prevent the strioken boar 
from pushing along the handle till 
he reached the hunter. Foot-traps 
were also used. 

The hunters were to go in 
company. "In the first place,'* 
says Xenophon, *' when the hunters 
have come to the place where they 
suppose the- boar to be, they must 
bring up the dogs quietly, letting 
one of die 8purtan dogs loose, and 
keeping the others tied, and then let 
them go round about the place with 
another loose dog. When the dog has 
found traces, of the boar they must 
continue their coiurse along the 
track, which is to guide the whole 
train. There will be many indtca* 
tions of the boar to guide the 
huntsmen — marks of his footsteps 
on soft ground, pieces of the shrubs 
broken off in tho woody parts, and, 
where there are large trees, marks ^ 
of his tusks upon them. The dog, 
pursuing his track, will generally 
come to some woody spot, for the 
animal usually lies in such places, 
as they are warm in winter and cool 
in summer. When the dog comes 
to the lair, he will begin to bark, • 
but the boar seldom rises on that^ 
account.'* The nets were then to 
be spread around, and the ropes of 
the nets to be tied to strong trees. 
The open places near the nets were ' 
to be carefully stopped up. , 

1877.J The Sportsman in Ancient Greece and Italy. 286 

All these preparations being com- 
pleted, the dogs were to be let 
loose, and the men to advance cau- 
tiously with their spears in their 
hands. The huntsman was to lead 
the way, cheering the dog^ on, and 
the rest of the party were to follow, 
with some intervals of space be- 
tween them. 

When the dogs came near the 
boai% they would start forward and . 
drive him out of his lair, the infuri- 
ated beast sometimes killing one or 
more of the dogs |^ his rage. The 
excitement of the sport then began. 
The hunters threw their javelins, 
and the dogs made a simul- 
taneous attack. If the boar pressed 
forward into the net, so as to strain 
the ropes to their utmost tension, 
the most expert hunter must ad- , 
vance, spear in hand, and pierce the 
boar in the neck or in the shoulder. 
If, instead of straining against the 
net, he turned to face his pursuers, 
one of the party was to advance to 
meet him with left foot and left hand 
in advance, watching ever}' move- 
ment of the animal's head« and . 
looking fixedly into his eyes,, whilst ■ 
he endeavoured to thrust his spear 
'*into his throat, or just above the 
shoulder blade." This was a most 
hazardous matter. A strong and 
sudden movement of the boar's 
head might turn the hunter's spear 
aside, and prevent its dealingan efifec- 
tual thrust^ or the spear might be 
wrested from the huntsman's hands. 
In either case he was recommended 
to throw himself fiat upon the 
ground, covering himself with his 
shield, for, " if the boar fall upon 
him in this position, he will be un- 
able to seize his body, his tusks 
being curved upwards, but if the 
man is attacked standing upright, 
he must necessarily be severely 
wounded." Xenophon adds, that 
the boar will try to raise the man 
up, and, if he cannot do this, will 
trample upon him with his feet. 
The man being on the grouud thus. 

one of his companions must pome 
to his assistance, endeavouring to 
draw off the boar's attention. When 
this object has been attained, the 
prostrate hunter is to jump up, 
spear in hand, rush to the attack, 
again, and thus help his brother 

In his celebrated description of 
the Calydoniati hunt, Ovid gives us 
a vivid picture of the wild boar and 
the chase. The forest is first da* 
scribed. Its trees growing for age^ 
rise from the ground as nature , 
placed them, untouched by man. , 
The great boar has his lair amongst 
these trees and their tangled brush- 
wood. Meleager and his corq- 
panions tracked the boar to this 
retreat— a den surrounded by wiJU 
lows, sedges, rushes and tall reeds. 
As in Xenophon's description, the 
placing of the nets, the unleashing 
of the dogs, the search for foot; 
tracks, the zeal of the hunters, and 
the sudden rush of the boar from 
the marshy places of the pool, the 
crashing and breaking of the trees 
and branches by the animal's hefid- 
long rush, the shout of the party, . 
the casting of the javelins, the dis« 
persion of the dogs, are all described 
with graphic force and vigour. The 
boar, after killing Anceeus, one of 
the party, is transfixed by the 
spear of Meleager, the huntsman, 
who also buries another boar-spear 
deep in his shoulder, and thus the 
scourge of the fields of Oalydon is 
brought low. Shouts of triumph 
rend the air, hearty congratulations 
greet the successful hunter, whilst 
the carcase of the huge beast lies 
extended on the ground. Even yet 
he is scarcely considered safe, and 
each roan buries his own spear 
deep in the yet warm body of the 
mighty boar, before the party, the 
lecta manus juvenunij feel perfect 

Xenophon tells us that the young 
fawns should be hunted in the 
spring, for it is in that season that 


The Sportsman in Ancient Greece and Italy. [Feb. 

they are born. The hontsman 
should first go into the grassy 
glades, where Uie deer are most nu- 
merous, and surrey the ground. 
He should come to the spot where 
the deer are seen, before daybreak, 
and he should be accompanied by 
his dogs and spears. The dogs 
should be tied to trees some dis- 
tance off, so that they may not 
frighten the deer by their barking. 
He and others, at appointed stations, 
should then watch, and at dawn he 
will probably see the deer bringiog 
each her little one to its usual 
resting place. Having lain down, 
and given their little ones suck« they 
will go off severally to parts oppo- 
site Uieir young, still keeping watch 
over them. Then must the hunts- 
man let loose his dogs, and, taking 
his spears in his hand, advance ra- 
pidly towards the most exposed of 
the fawns. The net keeper will 
accompany the hunter, and, the 
fawn being caught, he will throw his 
net round it. The little one cries 
out bitterly, and the hind, regardless 
of danger, will come forward and 
resolutely attack the net-keeper, 
both with horns and hoofs. At this 
juncture, the huntsman will cheer 
on his dogs, and use his spears 
until he has captured or killed the 
mother also. 

One naturally pities the poor 
deer under such circumstances, ex- 
posed to all the anxiety of doubt and 
danger, her love for her little one, 
and her fear for her own safety, 
contending for mastery. 

Another method of taking deer, 
much used by the ancient sports- 
men, was to set traps of a peculiar 
construction on the hills, meadows, 
woods, and about the streams 
frequented by the deer. These 
traps Xenophon calls vo^osr^a/^ai. 
They caught the feet of the in- 
cautious wanderers, and held them 
prisoners. The following morning 
the hunter sallied forth, with his 
dogs and spears. Sometimes the 

deer would break away with the 
foot trap, but although not retained 
a prisoner, would be unable to shake 
off the tr ip, and of course would 
not be able to flee, when pursued, 
with anything like her ordiniuy 
speed. The dogs would then be 
unslipped upon the scent, the 
hunter followed up, until the poor 
deer was brought to the earth by 
the combined attack of the trap» 
the dogs, and the hunters* spears. 

For the huntuig of the hare, 
Xenophoii's directions are minute 
and particular. He recommends a 
plain light dress, with sleeves of a 
similar description, a stout staff 
being held in Uie hand. The man 
who holds the nets accompanies the 
hunter. They should proceed to the 
hunting ground in silence, lest the 
hare, if she should happen to be 
near, should run off alarmed. The 
nets being tied to the trees, the net- 
keeper continues on the watch* 
whilst the hunter takes the dogs 
with the intention of driving the 
game towards the nets. Vowing a 
share of the booty to Apollo, and 
to Diana, he lets loose one of 
the dogs skilful in ti*acking. In 
wiuter this should be done at sun- 
rise, in summer before daybreak. 
When the dog has found the track, 
another should be let loose, and so 
on, one by one, at intervals, 
following them up and calling out 
their names, but not urging them 
too much, lest they should be ex- 
cited beyond measure before the 
time. The dogs will then hurry on dis- 
Cfivering several tracks, all is joy,and 
high spirits, and excitement, the ani- 
mals passing by each other, waving 
their tails on high, hanging down 
their ears, and casting bright glances 
from their eyes. 

When they have got near the 
hare, they will make it known to the 
huntsman, by shaking, not their 
tails only, but their whole bodies, 
advancing with hostile ardour, 
emulous of each other, running in 

1877-] The SporUman in Ancient Greece and Italy, 


concert, separating and advancing 
together, till at last they find the 
hare's lair, and rush towards her. 
She, starting up suddenly, and 
fleeing, causes loud barking and 
much clamour amongst the dogs. 
The men then call to them, *' For- 
ward, dogs, forward — right — well 
done." and such like. The hunts- 
man th3n, wrapping his cloak 
round his hand, with his staff in 
it, runs along the track of the dogs 
towards the hare, taking care not to 
impede them. The hara thus 
pursued will perhaps, at first, get 
out of sight, but will soon come 
round again to the place whence she 

*' At him, boys, at him; now, boys, 
now/* are the inspiriting cries with 
which the huntsman will urge on 
the dogs again, and, if the hare is 
caught in the first run, another will 
be sought for. 

If however, the dogs and the chase 
should break altogether away from 
hiniy the hunter may as he goes on, 
call out, asking any one he meets ^ 
*'have you seen my dogs any- 
"where ? *' When he has discovered 
them, he goes up quickly, calling 
the dogs by name, urging them on, 
and varying the tones of his voice, 
making it sharp or grave, gentle or 
strong. If the pursuit is on a hill- 
side, be calls out frequently, " well 
done, dogs, well done ;** or if they 
have got beyond the track, "hark 
back, dogs, hark back.** They, as 
soon as the track is clear, will throw 
themselves forward, leaping from 
side to side, seeming to have a 
common feeling, making signs to 
each other. They find the track 
again, and then the dogs, '* whisking 
about their tails, and running 
against, and frequently leaping over 
each other, yelping and tossing 
their heads, and looking towards the 
huntsman, will plainly intimate that 
they have found the hare. If she 
runs into the nets, she is caught 
there, and another must be sought. 

IwiffOt, m$Mf iii x^MC* o'afvf k(^mc. 

aa^uf yt u Kt/HC, kaXSq yt ^ nvnf 

are amongst the cries by which the 
dogs will be cheered forward in 
their search. 

This may be tame W3rk, com- 
pai*ed with aday*s sportafter a good 
pack of harriers, but Xenophon*s 
descriptions exhibit the true spirit 
of a lover of the chase notwith- 

On the question of scent Xeno- 
phon says, that spring and autumn 
are the best seasons for finding it 
— in summer the heat renders it 
uncertain, and in winter, when 
there is hoar firost, there is no 
scent. Much dew, he also says, 
dulls the scent by keeping it down, 
and southerly winds make it faint. 
The full moon too, interferes with 
hare-hunting, for the hares, pleased 
with the light, jump about as they 
sport the one with the other, and 
place their steps at long intervals. 

During the winter time, he ad- 
vises the hunter to dispense with 
dogs, as the snow parched their 
noses, and the scent was bad. The 
hunter was to go out to the hills, 
taking his nets with him, and to 
search for marks of the hare*s feet 
in the snow. When the track is 
found, the hunter follows it usually 
to a shady spot. He must not ap- 
proach too near, lest the hare 
should start, but is to make a 
circuit round the spot. He is next 
to surround the place with nets, and 
to arouse the hare. At length the 
hare would be caught, either by 
means of the nets, or in consequence 
of the weight of snow adhering to 
her legs and feet 

Oppian recommends snow-track- 
ing in winter, which» he says, u not 
attended with much difficulty, be- 
cause the track is readily recognized, 
and the soiled footprints remain 
distinct for a long time. Oppian 
wrote two hexameter poems still 
extant, one on hunting, his Cynegce- 
tica, and one on fishing, his UaHsu- 
tica* Some modern critics main- 
tain that these two poema it^x^ 


Tlie Sportsman in Ancient Greece and Italy, [Feb. 

by two different authors of the 
saipe name. The works are re- 
ferred to the latter part of the 
second century of our era. 

Hares and cranes were some, 
times caught by the laqueus, a sort 
of lasso, similar to that used for 
catchinghorses in America. Gratias 
speaks of them as running nooses ; 
and there is no doubt that larger 
game, such as deer, were sometimes 
caught by them. Oppian also 
speaks of a three pronged fork for 
killing hares, but it is not clear 
what was the exact form of this 

"There is as much difference," 
says Arrian in his Treatise on 
Coursing, " between a fair trial of 
speed in a good run, and ensnaring 
a poor animal without effort, as 
between a secret piratical a^9ault, 
such as robbers make at sea, and 
the yictorious naval engagements of 
the Athenians at Salamis, at 
Psyttalia, and at Cyprus.*' Herein 
we have the spirit of the true hunter, 
and he further defends Xenophon, 
by saying that although he made 
use of nets and dogs, yet he did not 
use snares, except when on the 
ground himself, and that he by no 
means left them there to entrap the 
poor animals, like skulking robbers 
lyin^ in wait for their piey in secret 

^lian has written a graphic, and 
on the whole a truthful, description 
of the hare*s manoeuvres to escape 
the dogs — of the many doubles 
she has recourse to when pressed, 
and of her attempts to gain rocky 
or woody places, where the dogs or 
huntsmen cannot follow or find. 
He describes her having outstripped 
her pursuers, as betaking herself to 
a sli<{ht eminence, where, squatted 
on her hind legs, as a watch tower, 
she inspects the field, notes par- 
ticularly the vain chase, and ridicules 
her adversaries ! 

Aiiian, the younger Xenophon 
as he has been sometimes called, 
is the first to give a systematic ac- 

count of coursing greyhounds in 
pursuit of hares. He speaks par- 
ticularly of the qualities of the 
dogs, Uieir rearing, training, and 
general management, and all with 
evident knowledge and relish. Like 
Xenophon, he says, he was a sports- 
man, a general, and a philosopher, 
"writing under the same feeling 
that actuated him when he wrote to 
amend the imperfections of Simon's 
work on horsemanship, not only 
out of rivalry, but from a conviction 
that his labours would be useful to 

Spring and summer he prononnces 
to be the best seasons for coarsing^ 
the heat of summer being too op- 
pressive for the dogs, for grey- 
hounds, he says, are impatient of 
heat, acid have often been suffocated 
by it, when rapidly pursuing the 
hare. Nor would he have the sports- 
man to follow the chase at all when 
the ground was frozen hard, because 
the dogs bruised themselves in a 
frost, losing their nails, lacerating 
the soles of their feet, and some- 
times even breaking the bones of 
their toes, when over eager in the 
chase. The hare on the other hand, 
having soft and woolly feet, trips 
along in the frost without injury. 

In Italy and Gaul coursing was 
carried on in ancient times, pretty 
much as it is at present in England. 
Hare-finders went out early in the 
morning, to discover the hares on 
their forms, bringing back word 
how many they had seen, and where. 
The sportsman then started for the 
field, hunted up the hare, let slip the 
dogs, and followed on horseback. 
Others, Arrian says, send out no 
hare.finders, but sally forth on 
horseback, accompanied by a party 
of their friends, and on coming to 
a likely ground, when the hare is 
started, they let slip the dogs. 
Others again go forth on foot, and 
if any accompany them on horse- 
back, they must follow the dogs* 
but those who thus trust to their 

1877.] The Sportsman in Ancient Oreeee arid Italy. 


own feet are the traer sportsmen. 
The heating was not unlike that 
pursued now. The ground, says 
Arrtan, is heaten hy an extended 
front, in regular array, proceeding 
in a straight line to the completion 
of a certain extent of country, and 
then wheeling ahout in a hody, 
they return in the same way, hy the 
side of their former track, omitting 
none of the likely places. To 
prevent confusion, the strictest 
order was to he enforced in all this. 
A judge too was to he appointed to 
order the coupling of the dogs, and 
all other matters of importance ap> 
pertaining to the cha^e ; otherwise, 
go eager would every sportsman be 
to see his own dog run» that several 
would be slipped together, and the 
poor hare would be caught in dis» 
order and confusion, wiihont a race, 
tiie 9port being thus completely 
spoiled. The object was to allow 
the hare to creep away from her 
fonn» as if unperceived, so that 
gradually recovering her presence 
of mind, she would be able to show 
good sport. ** Often whenfoUowing 
a course on horseback,*' says Arrian, 
'^ I have come up to the hare as 
soon ' as caught, and have myself 
saved her alive, and then having 
taken her away from the dog, I have 
tied up the dog, and allowed the 
hare to escape in safety. If I have 
arrived too late to save her, after a 
good run, I have struck my head in 
sorrow, that the dogs had killed so 
excellent an antagonist.'' Herein 
we have the true spirit of the 

Arrian thus describes his favourite 
greyhound, Horme, or Impetuosity, 
by name : ** Her eyes are the 
greyest of the grey, a swift, hard- 
working, courageous, sound-footed 
dog, and when in her prime, a 
match any time for any four hares. 
She is, moreover, for whilst I write 
she is still alive, most gentle and 
kindly affectioned. Never had any 
dog such a regard for me and for 

my friend and fellow sportsman 
Megillus. She is never far away 
f^om one of us. When at home 
she remains by my side, accom- 
panies me in going abroad, follows 
me to the gymnasium, sits down 
there quietly whilst I am exercising 
myself, and on my return runs off 
before me, often looking back to see 
that I am coming. If I am obliged 
to go out on Government business, 
she remains with my friend, and 
does exactly the same with. him. 
When she has lost sight of either 
of us for a time, she jumps up de- 
lightedly on our return, and barks 
forth a joyous salutation. She has 
many tones in her voice— I never 
knew a dog with , so many — each 
particular tone pointing out a par- 
ticular want or feeling. I am not 
ashamed to write even the name of 
this my dog, that it may be known 
to posterity — Horme (^Impetuosity) 
— a dog altogether supremely ex- 

The fish-hooks disinterred at 
Pompeii are a sufficient proof that 
the gentle craft was not neglected 
by the Romans. They vary much 
in size, form, and mode of adjiist- 
ment, and are made of steel or 
bronze. Oppian, too, mentions in 
his poem on this subject— his Jfai*- 
eutica^ that steel or bronze was the 
ordinary material of the hooks. 
Those found at Pompeii may be 
seen in the museum at Naples, 
some of them were two-barbed, 
bearing considerable resemblance 
to those of modern manufacture. 
Some of the larger hooks were 
leaded, the leads being often shaped 
like dolphins, and were named 
Delphini, from their resemblance 
to that fish. 

That fishing, as an art and an 
amusement, was popular amongst 
the ancient Greeks and Romans is 
proved by the number of works on 
the subject mentioned by Athenteus, 
as that of CsBcilius of Argos, of 
Numenius of Heraclea, of Pane- 


The Sportsman in Ancient Greece and Italy. [Feb. 

rates the Arcadian, of Posidonms 
the Corinthian, and of Oppian the 
Gilician. Of these works none re- 
main except the last. Seleacos of 
Tarsus, Leonidas of Byzantium, 
and Agathocles of Atracia, are 
mentioned by others as having 
written prose essays on fishing. 

iGlian gives the following account 
of the fly-fishing of his day (Nat 
Animal, xv. i.) •* There is a river 
called AstrsBus, which flows midway 
between Berea and Thessalonica, 
in which are produced certain 
spotted fish, whose food consists of 
insects which fly about the river. 
These insects are not like those 
found anywhere else. They are 
as impudent as flies, as large as the 
blue-bottle, of the same colour as 
wasps, and they buzz like bees. The 
natives call them hippuri. Now 
as they skim over the water, they 
attract the notice of the fish, who 
swim quietly along beneath the 
surface, taking care not to ruffle the 
surface, lest the fly should be 
frightened away. Suddenly the 
fish, seizing its opportunity, darts 
upon the fly, and carries it off in 
its mouth, just as a wolf darts upon 
a sheep unexpectedly, or an eagle 
upon a goose. The fishermen are 
aware of this, but they do not use 
these flies for bait, because handling 
would destroy their natural colour. 

injure their wings, and spoil them 
as a lure. Instead of the real fly, 
however, they make use of a sub- 
stitute. They cover the hook with 
a piece of purple wool, and upon 
this they fasten two feathers from 
underneath a cock*s wattles. This 
bait they drop into the water, and 
the fish, attracted by the brilliant 
colour, becomes violently excited, 
and, anticipating a delicious repast 
from the beautiful appearance of 
the bait, seizes the prey, is held 
firmly by the hook, and meets with 
but sorry entertainment from his 

Netting, and meaner devices for 
the capture of fish, were, of course, 
commonly practised, but angling 
with line and hook, trolling, and 
the simple kind of fly-fishing de- 
scribed above, were evidently not 
uncommon. Thus Homer says: — 

As, on a rock, that overhangs the 

An aogler, stadious of the line and 

Some mighty fish draws panting to the 


And Martial, in one of his epi- 
grams, alludes to the art thus : — 

All treacheroas gifts and bribes I hate. 
For gifts, like hooks, oft hold a bait 
Who has not seen the salmon rise. 
Decoy *d and caught by firaudfol flies? 


I^olk Lore of the County Donegal. 




Thbrb was not a more honest or 
respectable person in the whole 
parish of Lifford than Flo' Kelly ; 
but she had one fault — she was i?)- 
cautious and too outspoken. 

'* Rough an' ready," as her neigh- 
bours called her. she was fond of 
saying that she feared neither man 
nor devil, " nor, indeed, the gentry 
either/* she add^d on one occasion 
when the conversation turned upon 
the doings of her invisible elfin 
neighbours, the **wee folk," or 
•• gentry,** more generally believed 
in in the year 1828 than they are 
at the present day. 

•' Whisht, whisht, for ony sake ! '* 
cried old Matt Craig, who was light- 
ing his pipe at her fire when she 
made the above remark, *' whisht, 
woman, dear ; an* if you name them 
at ally name them respectful. They 
dinna like to be spoken about too 
much. Sure it's no lie I*m telling, 
Mrs. McGran ? *' and he turned to a 
woman who had entered in time to 
catch Flo*s rash speech. 

"Troth, no!** replied Mrs. 
McGran. '^It*s best to be re- 
spectful an* friendly wi* them, if 
yon wish to lead a quiet life, an* 
you sae convenient to thon ould Fort, 
Flo' Kelly ! It wasna far frae the 
Fort that wee Cassie Mackay was 
lost, when I was a growing cutty, 
the height o* Matt's stick.** 

*• How was tliat, Mrs. McGran, 

**Weel, weans,'* began Mrs. 

McGran, pleased to have a tale to 
tell. ** Gassie lived a wee piece up 
the river, an* her father bid her go 
to Lifford one evening for an ounce 
o* tobacco to him, but she cried, an 
said she was feared to go her lone. 
Wi* that the father got angry, an' 
pushed her out at the door, bidding 
the gentry catch her; an* she went 
awa* crying, but she never came 

" They searched an' searched, 
but no more was ever heard o' 
Cassie. I mind it as weel as if it 
was yesterday ; an' how my mother 
had to send me the same road for 
the doctor, but as sick as she was 
she wouldna' let me go till I got 
company past the Fort, for fear I'd 
be lost too." 

Matt had listened gravely, nod- 
ding his head from time to time. 
He took the pipe from between his 
lips, preparatory to lifting up his 

''Ay, it*s a bad thing to dis- 
pleasure the gentry, sure enough. 
They can be unfriendly if they're 
angered, an* they can be the very 
best o* gude neighbours if they're 
treated kindly. 

" My mother's sister was her lone 
in the house one day, wi' a big pot 
o' water boiling on the fire, an ane 
o* the wee folk fell down the chim- 
ney, and slipped wi* his leg in the 
hot water. 

" He let a terrible squeal out o' 
him, an' in a minute the house was 



Folk Lore of the County Donegal. 


full o' wee crathurs pulliug him out 
o' the pot, an' carrying him aeross 
the floor. 

" * Did she scald you?' my aunt 
heard them say in' to him. 

** ' Na, na, it was mysel' scalded 
my ainselV quoth the wee fellow. 

•**Aweel, aweel.' says they, 'if 

it was your ainsel' scalded yoursel', 

we'll say nothing, but if she had 

* scalded you, we*d ha' made her 


•* I give you my word my aunt 
was all through other wi' the fright ; 
an* I heard my mother sayin' she 
kept her bed for a week after it." 

It was Mrs. McGran's turn to 
speak. **My uncle Peter," she 
began, "lived overbye there near 
the Fort, an' the wee folk would ha' 
come into the house to him, an' 
played about the floor. He was a 
shoemaker, an' ane o' them chanced 
to let his wee red cap fall by mis- 
take amang the tools. The wee 
man couldna' get lifting it becase it 
was touching iron; so my uncle 
stuck it on a pole, an' set it out- 
side the window when he was going 
to bed that night, an' it was awa' in 
the morning. 

*' Ever after that he found half- 
pence on the stane under the baw- 
bush in his garden, that kept him 
in tobacco as long as he lived." 

" Weel, weel, bad or good, I'm 
no* a hair feared for them," repeated 
Flo' Kelly, impatiently. 

•' You shouldna' say the like o' 
that. You shouldna' say the like o' 
that," cried her neighbours in con- 

** You know Chumpun's a king, 
or leastways, a great man among 
the fairies, an' it*s allowed he lives 
at the Chum pun rock by the side 
of the road as you go to Glen 
Swilly. Weel, when Mr. Hastings, 
the magistrate, was driving on his 
jaun tin gear past Carrick-a-Chumpun 
wi' a whean g ntleman going shoot- 
ing, he took his gim and fired at the 

rock, an' says he, ' Will that bring 
you out, Ghumpan ? ' 

'*He was driving home in the 
evening, when the horse shies 
passing Carrick-a-Chumpun, an' he 
was thrown off the car and got his 
leg broken." 

*' What do I care ? I'm no a hair 
feared," said Flo' Kelly again. 

Soon after this conversation Flo' 
went out to drive home her two 
cows, who sometimes wandered 
into her neighbour's stubble fields, 
now that autumn was advanced, and 
the fencea broken down, where the 
harvest had been carried in. 

One of the cows was found a few 
fields away from home ; but where 
was the other? 

Flo' searched anxiously, yet saw 
no trace of her, and thought it best 
to drive the one cow home, and tie 
her up in the byre, before extending 
her search. 

On and on she went till the day- 
light was almost gone, and she 
found she had lost her way. Of 
course she could not see anything 
distinctly, but what she half saw 
was quite strange to her. Fences, 
trees, walls, and fields seemed to 
have taken new shapes. She 
certainly had not wandered far from 
Lifford, yet she might have been in 
an unknown country. 

In her perplexity she was glad to 
perceive a bright light shinii<g in a 
cottage window, and giving up 
hopes of finding her cow, she made 
her way towards it. 

•* Gome in," called a voice, in 
answer to her knock. The kitchen 
into which she walked was most 
comfortable. The dresser was well 
filled : flitches of bacon hung from 
the beam above the fire-place ; salt 
herrings in bunches were grouped 
about the wide chimney. All be- 
tokened a well-to-do farm kitchen, 
and the venerable white bearded 
man seated in the ingle nook, who 
had called *' come in," might have 
been the farmer. 


Folk Lore of the County Donegal, 


. Flo' looked curiously at him as 
the dancing flames lit up his face, 
and saw that he was a total stranger 
to her. 

8he soon hegan to wonder that 
DO one else appeared, for she heard 
whispering as of many voices in 
the next room, the door of which 
stood slightly ajar. 

Her host was very taciturn, for 
after asking her to he seated, he 
preserved silence, an unusual thing 
in so hospitable a parish as Lifford. 

She felt bewildered and startled 
when after a long silence, the old 
manbenttowardsherand whispered, 
'* Dinna tak' bite nor sup in this 
house, if you value the life that*s 
in your body. There's them that 
111 try to mak* you eat and drink, 
but mind my words an* do my 

Enforcing his advice with a 
couple of nods, he gazed into the 
fire as before. 

Time passed, and the mysterious 
whispering still went on. 

*' We canna let the poor woman 
be at the loss of' her cow,*' she 
heard some one say, and felt sure 
that she had fallen into the hands 
of robbers, who had stolen her cow, 
and would perhaps murder herself. 

*' We canna let the poor woman 
be at the loss o* her cow," was re- 
peated by a second voice, and the 
whispering continued, but listen as 
intently as she might, she made out 
no other words. 

At length the door opened, and a 
woman came into the kitchen, with 
a tray covered with such delicacies 
as Flo* had never dreamed of, and 
entreated her to eat. 

"Thank you kindly, good 
woman,'* said she, trembling in 
every limb, •* but I got my supper 
before I came out, an* I couldna tak* 
one bite.** 

The same thing was repeated 
when she reappeared with whisky — 
'* lashin's and lashin's o*t,** as Flo' 
afterwards expressed it. The night 

wore on somehow, though to Flo 
it seemed like twenty nights ; and 
the dawn at last came in at the 

" Diuna go till I gie you a present 
wi* you,** said the person who had 
offered food and drink, coming once 
more into the kitchen. '* Here it 
is,** handing her something rolled 
up in a white towel, " but dinna' 
you tak* the cloth off it, or go to 
look at it till you get home.*' 

The silent old man conducted 
her to the next field, and then left 
her, and it was not long before she 
reached her own door. 

Full of curiosity she unpinned' 
the towel, and discovered a pair of 
bagpipes, which began to play reels 
and jigs most beautifully. 

Ab long as she kept them un- 
covered, they continued to play; 
but when rolled up, and laid in dbe 
cupboard, they ceased immediately. 

The fame of the bagpipes spread 
far and wide, and every body in the 
parish of Lifford came to hear them 

play. Colonel C , Flo's 

landlord, was about to give a large 

** We'll have a dance, and Flo* 
Kelly shall bring her bagpipes, and 
play for us,** said he. 

The landlord's summons was like 
a royal mandate to Flo', so she put 
on her Sunday attire, and hastened 
to the great house. After dinner, 
the hall was cleared for dancing, 
while the bagpipes on their proud 
mistress's knee, played tunes that 
mi^ht have made even a cripple 

That night's festivity was- Flo's 
favourite topic of conversation, as 
long as she lived. 

•' His honour come up to me wi* 
the grand quality," she used to say, 
an' says he, "we're inunder a 
compliment to Flo' Kelly for the 
loan o' her bagpipes," an* wi' that, 

aneo'the quality says, "Col. C ," 

says he, " we maun mak* a collectioii 
for Flo' Kelly," an* the hat went 


Folk Lore of the County Donegal. 


round, an* fifteen pound was lifted 
for me amang the grand quality.*' 

At Flo* walked home with the 
money, it occurred to her that here 
was the exact price of her lost cow. 

She laid the fairy bagpipes as 
u^ual in her cupboard, but when 
she next looked for them they were 

l*hen Mrs. McGran and Matt 
Craig spoke out. "Them we >*ill 
ua name took your cow for certain, 
maybe becase you were ay tempt- 
ing them, an* talking sae foolitch ; 
but if they did they let you off wi' 
the fright, for they g^ve you the 
price o' her, when they gave you 
the bagpipes.*' 

Flo* made little reply, but it was 
observed by her neighbours that 
from that day forth she seldom 
mentioned the fairies, and if ob- 
liged to do so, spoke of them with 
the utmost deference, and in 

Pat Diver, the tinker, was a man 
well accustomed to a wandering 
life, and to strange shelters : he 
had shared the beggar*s blanket in 
smoky cabins ; he had crouched 
beside the Still, in many a nook 
and corner, where poteen was made 
on the wild Innishowen moun- 
tains ; be had even slept upon the 
bare heather, or in the ditch, with 
no roof over him but the vault of 
heaven ; yet were all his nights of 
adventure tame and commonplace, 
when compared with one especial 

During the day preceding that 
night, he had mended all the 
kettles and saucepans in Moville 
and Greencastle, and was on his 
way to Guldaff when night over- 
took him on a lonely mountain 

He knocked at one door after 
another, asking for a nigbt*s lodg- 
ing, while he jingled the halfpence 
in his waistcoat pocket, but was 
everywhere refused. 

Where was the boasted hospita- 
lity of Innishowen, which he had 
never before known to fail? It 
was of no use to be able to pay, 
when people seemed so churlish. 
Thus thinking he made his way to- 
wards a light a little further on, 
and knocked at another cabin door. 

An old man and woman were 
seated one at each side of the fire. 

'* Will you be pleased to gie me 
a night*s lodging, sir? '* asked Pat, 

" Can you tell a story ? *' returned 
the old man. 

" No, then, sir, I calm a say I'm 
good at story telling,** replied the 
puzzled tinker. 

*'Then you maun just gang 
furtlier, for none but them that 
can tell a story will get in here.** 

This reply was made in so de- 
cided a tone, that Pat did not 
attempt to repeat his appeal, but 
turned away reluctantly to resume 
his weary journey. 

** A story, indeed ! ** muttered he. 
•' Auld wives* fables to please the 
weans ! ** 

As he took up his bundle of tin- 
kering implements, he observed a 
bam standing rather behind the 
dwelling house, and aided by the 
rising moon, he made his way to- 
wards it. 

It was a clean, roomy bam, with 
a piled-up heap of straw in one 
corner. Here was a shelter not to 
be despised, so Pat crept under the 
straw and soon fell asleep. 

He could not have slept very 
long when he was awakened by the 
tramp of feet, and peeping cau- 
tiously through a crevice in his 
straw covering, he saw four im- 
mensely tall men enter the barn, 
dragging a body, which they threw 
roughly upon the floor. 

They next lighted a fire in the 
middle of the bam, and fastened 
the corpse by the feet with a great 
rope, to a beam in the roof. One 
of them then began to turn it 


Folk Lore of the Couniy Donegal. 


slowly before the fire. " Come od," 
said he, addressing a gigantic fel- 
low, the tallest of the four, " I*m 
tired ; you be to tak* your turn." 

"Faix an' troth. Ill no turn 
him," replied the big man. "There's 
Pat Diver in under the straw ; why 
wouldn't he tak* his turn ? " 

With hideous cla^nour the four 
men called the wretched Pat, who, 
seieing there was no escape, thought 
it was his wisest plan to come forth 
as he was bidden. 

'• Now, Pat," said they, " you'll 
turn the corpse, but if you let him 
burn, you'll be tied up there, an* 
roasted in bis place." 

Pat's hair stood on end, and the 
cold perspiration poured from his 
forehead, but there was nothing for 
it but to perform his dreadful task. 

Seeing him fairly embarked in it 
the tall men went away. 

Soon, however, the flame rose so 
high as to singe the rope, and the 
corpse fell with a great t1)ud upon 
the fire, scattering the ashes and 
embers, and extracting a howl of 
anguish from the miserable cook, 
who rushed to the door, and ran 
for his life. 

He ran on until he was ready to 
drop with fatigue, when seeing a 
drain overgrown with tall, rank 
grass, he thought he would creep 
in there, and lie hidden till morning. 

But he had not been many 
minutes in the drain before he 
heard the heavy trampling again, 
and the four men came up with 
their burden, which ihey laid down 
on the edge of the drain. 

" I'm tired," said one, to the 
giant, ** its your turn to carry him 
a piece now." 

'* Faix an' troth Til no carry 
him," replied he, *' but there's Pat 
Diver in the drain ; why wouldn't 
he come out an' tak* his turn ? " 

"Come out, Pat I come out!" 
roared all the men, and Pat, almost 
dea^l with fright, crept out. 

Be staggered on uuder tlie weight 

of the corpse until he reached 
Kiltown Abbey, a ruin festooned 
with ivy, where the brown owl 
hooted all night long, and the for- 
gotten dead slept around the walls, 
under dense, matted tangles of 
brambles and benweed. 

No one ever buried there now, 
but Pat's tali companions turned 
into the wild graveyard, and began 
to dig a grave. 

Pat seeing them thus engaged, 
thought he might once more try to 
escape, and climbed up into a haw- 
thorn tree in the fence, hoping to 
be hidden by the boughs. 

''I'm tired," said the man who 
was digging the grave, '* here, tak' 
thespaide," addressing the big man, 
•* it's your turn." 

*' Faix an' troth, it's no my turn," 
replied he, as before. " There's 
Pat Diver in the tree: why wouldn't 
he come down an' tak' his turn ? " 

Pat came down to take the spade, 
but just then the cocks in the little 
farmyards and cabins round the 
Abbey began to crow, and the men 
looked at one another. 

"We must go," said they, "an' 
well it is for you, Pat Diver, that 
the cocks crowed, for if they had 
not, you'd just ha* been bundled 
into then grave wi* the corpse." 

Two months passed, and Pat had 
wandered far and wide over the 
county Donegal, when he chanced 
to arrive at Baphoe during a fair. 

Among the crowd that filled the 
Diamond he came suddenly upon 
the big man. 

"How are you, Pat Diver?" said 
he, bending down to look in the 
tinker's face. 

"Youve the advantage of me, 
sir, for I havena' the pleasure of 
knowing you," faltered Pat. 

" Do you not know me, Pat ? 
Whisper — when you go back to 
Innishowen, you'll have a story 
to tell 1 " 

The history of Jamie Freel and 


Folk Lore of the County Donegal. 


the young lady, is prettier and less 
weird than the above tale. 

Down in Fannet in- times gone 
by lived Jamie Freel and his mother. 
Jamie was the widow*s sole support r 
his strong arm worked for her un- 
thingly, and as each Saturday night 
came round, he poured his wages 
into her lap, thanking her dutifully 
for the halfpence which she returned 
to him for tobacco. 

He was extolled by his neigh- 
bours art the best son ever known 
or heard of. But he had neigh- 
bours of whose opinions he was 
ignorant — neighbours who lived 
pretty close to him, whom he had 
never seen, who are indeed, rarely 
seen by mortals except on Mayeves 
and Halloweens. 

An old ruined castle about a 
quarter of a mile from his cabin, 
was said to be the abode of the 
•* wee folk ;" every Halloween were 
the ancient windows lighted up, and 
passers by saw little figures flitting 
to and fro inside the building, while 
they heard the music of pipes and 

It was well kno^vn that fairy 
revels took place there, but nobody 
ever had the courage to intrude 
upon them. 

Jamie had often watched the 
little figures from a distance, and 
listened to the charming music, 
wondering what the inside of the 
castle was like ; but one Halloween 
he got up and took his cap, saying 
to his mother, *' l*m awa to the 
castle to seek my fortune." 

" What," cried she, '* would you 
venture there ? You that's the poor 
widow's one son ! Dinna be sae 
venturesome an* foolitch, Jamie! 
They'll kill you, an' then what 'ill 
come o' me ? " 

** Never fear, mother. Nae harm 
'ill happen me, but I maun gae." 

He set out, and as he crossed the 
potato field, came in sight of the 
castle, whose windows were ablaze 
with light, that seemed to turn the 

russet leaves still clinging to the 
crabtree branches, into gold. 

Halting in the grove at one side 
of the ruin, he listened to the elfin 
revelry ; and the laughter and sing- 
ing made him all the more deter- 
mined to proceed. 

Numbers of little people, the 
largest about the size of a child of 
five years old, were dancing to the 
music of flutes and fiddles, while 
others drank and feasted. 

•* Welcome, Jamie Freel! Wel- 
come, welcome, Jamie ! " cried the 
company, perceiving their visitor. 
The word '' welcome " was caught 
up and repeated by every voice in 
the castle. 

Time flew, and Jamie was en- 
joying himself very much, when his 
hosts said, *' We're going to lide to 
Dublin to-night, to stesd a young 
lady. Will you come too, Jamie 
Freel ? " 

** Ay, that will I ! " cried the rash 
youth, thirsting for adventure. 

A troop of horses stood at the 
door. Jamie mounted, and his 
steed rose with him into the air. 
He was presently flying over his 
mother s cottage, surrounded by the 
elfin troop, and on and on they 
went over bold mountains, over 
little lakes, over the deep Lough 
S willy, over towns and villages, 
where people were burning nuts, 
and eating apples, and keeping 
merry Halloween. It seemed to 
Jamie that they flew **all round 
Ireland,* before they got to Dublin* 

*• This is Derry," said the fairies, 
flying over the Cathedral spire ; and 
what was said by one voice was 
repeated by all the rest, till fifty 
little voices were crying out ** Deny ! 
Derry ! Deri^ ! " 

In like manner was Jamie in- 
formed as they passed each town 
on the route, and at length he heard 
the silvery voices cry, *' Dublin I 
Dublin ! " 

It was no mean dwelling that 
was to be honoured by the flaiiy 


Folk Lore of the County Donegal. 


▼isit, but one of the finest houses in 
8fcephen*s Green. 

The troop dismounted near a 
window, and Jamie saw a beautiful 
sleeping face on a pillow, in a 
splendid bed. He saw the young 
lady lifted, asleep as she was, and 
carried away, while the stick which 
was dropped in her place upon the 
bed, took her exact form. 

The lady was placed before one 
rider, and carried a short way, then 
given to another, and the names of 
the towns were cried out as before. 

They were approaching home. 
Jamie heard *' Eathmullan,** *" Mil- 
ford," " Tamney,'* and then he 
knew they were near his own house. 

'* You've all had your turn at 
carrying the young lady,*' said he, 
** why wouldn't I get her for a wee 

"Ay, Jamie," replied they, 
pleasantly, '*you may take your 
torn at carrying her to be sure." 

Holding his prize very tightly, he 
diopped down near his motlier*s 

** Jamie Freel, Jamie Freel! is 
that the way you treat us?" cried 
they, and they too dropped down 
near the door. 

Jamie held fast, though he knew 
not what he was holding, for the 
Uttle folk turned the lady into all 
manner of strange shapes. At oue 
moment she was a black dog, 
barking and trying to bite — at 
another a glowing bar of iron, 
which yet had no heat — then again 
a sack of wool. 

But still Jamie held her, and the 
baffled elves were turning away, 
when a tiny woman, the smallest of 
the party, exclaimed, ^' Jamie Freel 
has her awa' frae us, but he sail hae 
nae gude o' her, for 111 mak* her deaf 
and dumb," and she threw some- 
over the young girl. 

"While they rode off disappointed, 
Jamie lifted the latch, and went in. 

'* Jamie, man ! " cried his 
mother, ''you've been awa' all 

nicht; what have they done <m 

''Naething bad, mother, I ha' 
had the very best of gude luck. 
Here's a beautiful young lady I ha' 
brought you for company." 

" Bless us an' save us ! " ex- 
claimed the mother, and for some 
minutes she was so astonished that 
she could not think of anything 
else to say. 

Jamie told the story of the night's 
adventure, ending by saying, 
'* Surely you wouldna have allowed 
me to let her gang with them to be 
lost for ever ? " 

*' But a lady^ Jamie ! How can 
a lady eat we'er poor diet, an' live 
in we'er poor way ? I ax you that, 
you foolitch fellow ? " 

" Weel, Mother, sure it's better 
for her to be here, nor over yonder?" 
and he pointed in the direction of 
the castle. 

Meanwhile, the deaf and dumb 
girl shivered in her light clothing, 
stepping close to the humble turf 

'* Poor crathur, she's quare and 
handsome! Nae wonder they set 
their hearts on her ! " said the old 
woman, gazing at her guest with 
pity and admiration. ''We maun 
dress her first, but what in the name 
o' fortune, hae I fit for the likes o* 
her to wear ? " 

She went to her press in ''the 
room," and took out her Sunday 
gown of brown drugget, she then 
opened a drawer, and drew forth a 
pair of white stockings, a long snowy 
garment of fine linen, and a cap, 
her " dead dress," as she called it. 

These articles of atiire had long 
been ready for a certain triste 
ceremony, in which she would some 
day fill the chief part, and only saw 
the light occasionally, when they 
were hung out to air ; but she was 
willing to give even these to the 
fair, trembling visitor, who was 
turning in dumb sorrow and wonder 


Folk Lore of the County Donegal. 


from her to Jamie, and from Jamie 
back to her. 

The poor girl suffered herself to 
be dressed, and then sat down on 
a " creepie *' in the chimney comer, 
and bmried her face in her hands. 

** Whatll we do to keep up a lady 
like thon ? " cried the old woman. 

•* 1*11 work for you both, mother,** 
replied the son. 

**An* how could a lady live on 
we*er poor diet? ** she repeated. 

*• 1*11 work for her,'* was all 
Jamie's answer. 

He kept his word. The young 
lady was very sad for a long time, 
and tears stole down her cheeks 
many an evening while the old 
woman spun by the fire, and Jamie 
made salmon nets, an accomplish- 
ment lately acquired by him, in 
hopes of adding to the comfort of 
his guest 

But she was always gentle, and 
tried to smile when she perceived 
them looking at her ; and by degrees 
she adapted herself to their ways 
and mode of life. It was not very 
long before she began to feed the 
pig, mash potatoes and meal for the 
fowls, and knit blue worsted socks. 

So a year passed, and Hallowe'en 
came round again. *' Mother,*' 
said Jamie, taking down his cap, 
' I'm off to the ould castle to seek 
my fortune.'* 

" Are you mad, Jamie P '* cried 
his mother, in terror. " Sure they'll 
kill you this time for what you done 
on them last year ! *' 

Jamie made light of her fears, 
and went his way. 

As he reached the Crab - tree 
Grove, he saw bright lights in the 
Castle windows as before, and heard 
loud talking. Creeping under the 
window, he heard the wee folk say : 
'* That was a poor trick Jamie Freel 
played us this night last year, when 
he stole the nice young lady from 

" Ay,'* said the tiny woman, ** an' 
I punished him for it, for there she 

sits a dumb image by his hearth ; 
but he does na know that three 
drops out o* this glass I hold in 
my hand, wad gie her her hearing 
an' her speeches back again." 

Jamie*s heart beat fast as he 
entered the hall. Again he was 
greeted by a chorus of welcomes 
from the company. " Here comes 
Jamie Freel ! Welcome, welcome, 
Jamie ! '* 

As soon as the tumult subsided, 
the little woman said, •* You be to- 
drink we'er health, Jamie, out o' 
this glass in my hand." 

Jamie snatched the glass from 
her, and darted to the door. He 
never knew how he reached his 
cabin, but he arrived there breath- 
less, and sank on a stool by the 

•• You're kilt sorely this time, my 
poor boy," said his mother. 

*'No, indeed, better luck than 
ever this time ! " and he gave the 
lady three drops uf the liquid that 
still remained in the bottom of the 
glass, notwithstanding his mad race 
over the potato-field. 

The lady began to speak, and her 
first words were words of thanks te 

The three inmates of the cabin 
had so much to say to one another, 
that long after cock-crow, when the 
fairy music had quite ceased, they 
were talking round the fire. 

•* Jamie," said the lady, " be 
pleased to get me paper and pen 
and ink, that 1 may write to my 
father, and tell him what has be- 
come of me." 

She wrote, but weeks passed, and 
she received no answer. A gain and 
again she wrote, and still no answer. 

At length she said, '* You must 
come with me to Dublin, Jamie, to 
find my father." 

** I ha* no money to hire a car for 
you,** he replied, " an* how can you 
travel to Dublin on your foot ? ** 

But she implored him so much 
that he consented to set out with 


Folk Lore of the County Donegal, 


her, and walk all the way from Fun- 
net to Dublin. It was not as easy 
as the Fairy journey ! — but at last 
they rang the bell at the door of 
the house in Stephen*s Green. 

" Tell my father that his daughter 
is here," said she to the servant who 
opened the door. 

*' The gentleman that lives here 
has no daughter, my girl. He had 
one, but she died better nor a year 

** Do you not know me, Sullivan ?" 

" No, poor girl, I do not." 

" Let me see the gentleman. I 
only ask to see him.*' 

** Well, that*s not much to ax — 
well see what can be done ! '* 

In a few moments the lady's 
father came to the door. 

•* Dear father," said she, '* don't 
you know me ? " 

"How dare you call me your 
father?" cried the old gentleman 
angrily. **You are an impostor. 
I have no daughter." 

^'Look in my face, father, and 
surely you'll remember me I *' 

" My daughter is dead and buried. 
She died a long, long time ago." 
The old man*s voice changed from 
anger to sorrow. '*You can go," 
he concluded. 

'* Stop, dear father, till you look 
at this ling on my finger. Look at 
your name and mine engraved on it." 

"It certainly is my daughter's 
ring ; but I do not know how you 
came by it. I fear in no honest way." 

" Gall my mother, she will be sure 
to know me^' said the poor girl, who 
was by this time crying bitterly. 

•*My poor wife is beginning to 
forget her soitow. She seldom 
speaks of her daughter now. Why 
should I renew her grief by re- 
minding her of her loss ? " 

But the young lady perservered 
till at last the mother was sent for. 

•• Mother," she began, when the 
old lady came to the door, " don't 
yotf know your daughter ? " 

*' I have no daughter; my daugh- 

ter died and was buried a long, 
long time ago.'* 

** Only look in my face and surely 
you'll know me I'* 

The old lady shook her head. 

*• You have all forgotten me, but 
look at this mole on my neck. 
Surely, mother, you know me 

•*Yes, yes," said the mother, 
"my Gracie had a mole on her 
neck like that ; but then I saw her 
in her coffin, and saw tlie lid shut 
down upon her." 

It became Jamie's turn to speak, 
and he gave the history of the fairy 
journey, of the theft of the young 
lady, of the figure he had seen laid 
in her place, of her life with his 
mother in Fannet, of last Hal- 
loween, and of the three drops 
that had released her from her en- 

She took up the story when he 
paused, and told how kind the 
mother and son had been to her. 

The parents could not make 
enough of Jamie ; they treated him 
with every distinction, and when he 
expressed his wish to return to Fan- 
net, said the}' did not know what to> 
do to show their gratitude. 

But an awkward complication 
arose. The daughter would not 
let him go without her. *' if Jamie 
goes, ni go too," she said. ** He 
saved me from the fairies, and has 
worked for me ever since. If it 
had not been for him, dear father 
and mother, you would never have 
seen me again. If he goes, I'll go 

This being her resolution, the 
old gentleman said that Jamie 
should become his son - in - law. 
The mother wais brought from Fan- 
net in a coach and four, and there 
was a splendid wedding. 

They all lived together in the 
grand Dublin house, and Jamie 
was heir to untold wealth at his 
father-in-law*8 death. 

Letitia McClintock. 


Monsieur Joubert's Thoughts. 




Fbelimikabt Title. 

Ths Authob PinrnD bt Himsblf. 

I HAVE given mj flowers and my 
fruit, and am now but a sonorous 
trunk : but whosoever sits beneath 
my shade and hears me, becomes 

In many things I am like a but- 
terfly ; like it, I love light ; like it, 
my life is burned by it ; like it, to 
spread my wings I must feel it is 
fair weather in the society around 
me, must feel my miud encompassed, 
and as it were penetrated, by the 
mild temperature, that of indul- 
gence ; my mind and character are 
sensitive to cold. 

I require that loving eyes shonld 
shine upon me. Of me it is true 
to say, " He is king who pleases, he 
who pleases no longer is nothing." 
I go where I am wished for, at least 
as willingly as where I fc*el happy. 

I am sorry to quit Paris because 
I must separate from my friends ; 
and I am sorry to quit the country, 
because I must separate from my- 

My head is loving and my heart 
headstrong. All I admire is dear 
to me, and all that is dear cannot 
become indiflerent to me. 

Philanthropy and repentance is 
my device. 

I care little for prudence if it is 
not moral. I have a bad opinion of 
the lion since I have learned that 
his step is oblique. 

When my friend is one-eyed, I 
look only at his profile. 

I would not have a mind without 
light, nor a mind without a band- 
age. We must know how bravely 
to blind ourselves for the happiness 
of life. 

Instead of complaining that the 
rose has thorns, I rejoice that the 
thorn is crowned bv a rose, and 
that the bush bears flowers. 

There is no ban ton without a 
grain of contempt for others. Now 
I find it impossible to despise a 

The language of confidence is 
familiar to me, but not the language 
of familiarity. 

I never learnt to speak coarsely, 
to insult, or curse. 

I follow the example of the dove, 
and often throw a blade of grass to 
the drowning ant. 

When I gather shells and find 
pearls in them, I pick out the pearls 
and throw away the shells. 

If I had to choose, I should pre- 
fer indolence that allows men time 
to become better, to security that 
makes theai worse, and precipita- 
tion that waits not for repentance. 

I like those better who make vice 
attractive than those who make 
virtue repulsive. 

When I break people's windows 


Monsieur Jouberfs Thoughts. 


I wish tbem to be tempted to paj 
lue for them. 

The trouble of dispute exceeds 
by much the utility. Controversy 
makes the mind deaf, and wheu 
others are deaf I am silent. 

I call not reason that brutal rea- 
son which crushes with its weight 
what is holy and sacred ; that 
magnificent reason that rejoices in 
errors when it has found them out ; 
that unfeeling scornful reason that 
insults credulity. 

Others' goodness makes me as 
happy as my own. 

My discoveries — and every man 
has his own — have brought me back 
to prejudices. 

My soul dwells in a place through 
which all the passions have passed : 
I have known them all. 

I have passed a river of oblivion. 

The path of truth ! My way to 
it has been circuitous; hence the 
tracts you are straying in are well 
known to me. 

The revolution drove my mind 
away from the real world, by making 
it too horrible to me. 

But, in fine, what is my art ? By 
what name is it to be distinguished 
from others? What object does 
it propose to itself? What does ib 
give birth and existence to P What 
is my aim and purpose in the exer- 
cise of it P Is it merely to write and 
secure myself being read — the 
sole ambition of many P Is this all 
I aim atP Am I nothing but a 
polymatbiste, or have I a class of 
ideas easily assigned, whose na- 
ture, character, merit and utility 
can be determined P This is what 
I must examine attentively, de- 
liberately till I have solved it. 

My dream should have been of 
the beautiful, as happiness is the 
dream of others. But mine is a 
better dream, for death itself and 
its aspect, far from troubling its 
continuity, opens to it ampler 
spaces. This dream that mingles 
with ail my vigils, in all my sober 

hours, that is strengthened by 
reflection, no absence, no loss can 
cause its irreparable interruption. 

I can sow, but not build or found. 

Heaven has put only rays of 
light into my intelligence, and for 
eloquence allows me but beautiful 
words. I have just force sufficient 
to elevate myself^ and my virtue is 
merely a certain incorruptibility. 

Like Montaigne I am not made 
for sustained discourse. 

With the tip of my lips, I have 
often touched the cup that contained 
abundance, but it is a water that 
has always fled from me. 

I am like an iBolian harp that 
gives forth sweet souuds, but exe- 
cutes no air. No constant wind 
has blown upon me. 

I pass my life hunting butterflies, 
holding as good those ideas that 
are conformed to the common, and 
the others only as my own. 

Like Da>dalus I fabricate wings 
for myself, forming them little by 
little, each day attaching a feather. 

My mind loves to travel in open 
spaces, to play with the waves of 
light,disceruingnothing,but steeped 
in joy and clearness. And what am 
I, but an atom in a beam of light ? 

My effluences are the dreams of 
a shadow. 

I resemble the poplar, the tree 
that always looks young, even when 
it is old. 

I thank heaven for having made 
my mind a light thing, able to 
mount on high. 

Madame Victorine H. Chatenay 
said of me thnt I looked like a soul 
that had by chance met a body, and 
was making the best of it. I can- 
not deny the fulness of the ex- 

Like the lark, I love to wander 
far, and above my nest. 

In my habitation I would have a 
great deal of heaven and very little 
earth mixed. My nest must be a 
bird's, for my thoughts and words 
have wings. 


Monsieur JouberVs Thoughts. 


How difficult it is to be at the 
same time ingeDious and sensible ! 
For a long time I could not find the 
ideas that suit my mind, or the 
language that suited those ideas. 
Long I had to support the torments 
of a fertility that could find no out- 

My mind requires fetters like 
the feet of Leger in the fairy tale, 
when he wished to arrive. 

I would have philosophy, and es- 
pecially metaphysics, to be neither 
quadruped nor biped. I would 
have it winged and singing. 

You go to truth through poetry. 
I reach poetry through truth. 

We may have tact early, and 
taste late : this is my case. 

I like few pictures, few operas, 
few statues, few poems, and yet I 
love the arts. 

Oh ! if I could express myself 
through music, through dancing, 
through painting, as I express my- 
self through words. How many 
ideas I should have which I have 
not, how many feelings which must 
be for ever unknown to me. 

All that appears false to me has 
no existence for nip. It is to mv 
mind a void that allows no grasp. 
Hence, I am unable to combat or 
refute it, except by assimilating it 
to something existing and by rea- 
soning by analogy. 

Ordinary clearness is not suffi- 
cient for me, when the sense of 
words is not as clear as their sound, 
that is to say, when they do not 
present to my thoughts, objects as 
transparent in themselves as the 
terms that denominate them. 

That part of my head destined 
to receive things that are not clear 
is extremely narrow. 

Why am I so fatigued by talk- 
ing ? It is that when I speak, one 
portion of my fibres is exerted, 
while the rest continue depressed ; 
that which acts supports alone the 
fatigue of action, by which it is 
soon overcome. Tht:re is at once 

an unequal distribution nf the 
forces, and an unequal distribution 
of activity. Hence total fatigue, 
when that which was strong is worn 
out, for then weakness is every- 

When I shine, I consume my- 

What I do well is done slowly 
and with extreme fatigue. There 
is strength beneath my weakness : 
weakness is the instrument : be- 
neath the strength of many people 
there is weakness. It is in the 
heart, the reason, in the too little 
genuine will. 

I have too much brain for my 
head ; it can't move freely in its 

I have many forms of ideas, but 
too few forms of phrases. 

In all things it seems to me that 
the intermediary ideas are wanting 
in me, or that they are a trouble to 

I wished to do without words, 
and scorned them : words revenge 
themselves by difficulty. 

If there is a man tormented by 
the cursed ambition to put a \i hole 
book into a page, a whole page into 
a phrase, and this phrase into a 
word, it is I. 

Certain parts spring up in me 
naturally, too finished to allow me 
to dispense with equal finish in all 
that is to accompany them. I know 
too well what I am going to say 
before I write. 

In verses, the attention is sus- 
tained by the ear being amused. 
Proi'e has not this aid ; could it 
have it ? I try, but I think not. 

I wish to derive all my efi*ects 
from the sense of words, as you do 
from their sound, from their choice, 
as you from their multitude, from 
their isolation itself, as you from 
their harmony, neveriheless desiring 
that there be harmony between 
them, but a harmony due to nature 
and fitness, not to industry, purely 
woven and sequent. 


Monsieur JoaberCs ThoujhU, 


Ignorant ones who know only 
joar harpsichords or your organs, 
to wham applause is necessary as 
an accompaniment, without which 
your chords would be incomplete, 
I cannot imitate ye. I play tbe 
antique lyre, not that of Timo- 
theus but the three or five-stringed 
lyre, the lyre of Orpheus, the Ijre 
that gives pleasure to him who 
holds it as to those who look at him, 
for he is contained in his air, he is 
forced to listen to himself, he hears 
himself, judges himself, charms 

It will be said I speak subtlely. 
It is sometimes the only means of 
penetration which the mind has in 
its power, either from the nature of 
the truth it strives to attain, or 
from the nature of the opinions and 
ignorance, through which it has to 
open painfully an issue for itself. 

I like to see two truths nt once. 
Every good comparison gives the 
mincl this advantage. 

1 have alwajs an image to draw 
an image and a thought, two things 
for one, and double labour for me. 

It is not my phrase I polish, but 
my idea. I pause till the drop of 
light I want is formed and falls rrom 
my pen. 

I should like to coin wisdom, 
that is to say to coin it into maxims, 
proverbs, sentences easily carried 
about and transmitted. Thnt I 
could cry down and banish from the 
language of men, as degraded coin, 
the words that they misuse and 
which deceive them. 

I should like tu infuse the ex- 
quisite fense into the common sense, 
or to render common the exquisite. 

I required age to learn what I 
wanted to know, and I should re- 
quire youth to tell rightly what I 
know. Heaven gave force to my 
mind but for a period, and this 
period is past. 

Men are acconntable for their 
actions, but I shall have to render 
an account of my thoughts, they 

serve as foundation, not only of my 
work, but of my life. 

My ideas ! It is the hou^e to 
lodge them in that costs me some- 
thing to build. 

The siUworm spins its cocoon, 
and I spin minp,*but it won't be 
wound off. As God wills. 

Or God. 


Creation. Eternitt. 
Keligion. Tue Scbip- 

So great and vast is God, that in 
order to understand Him we are 
obliged to divide Him. 

In this operation of imagining 
God, the fir:»t means is the human 
form, light is the last term, and in 
light, its Hplendour. I know not if 
imagination can go farther, but the 
mind carries on the process. When 
imagination stops, space presents 
itself to it, omnipotence, the in- 
finite. A glorious circle to describe 
and ever beginning. We quit it. 
We resume it. We plunge into it. 
We come from it. What matters 
it that every one completes it? Our 
duty, our happiness, depends on our 
holding to it, not on our tracing it. 

We know God through piety, 
the sole mortification of the soul 
that brings Him within our reach, 
and shows him to us. 

We always believe that God is 
like ourselves; the indulgent pro- 
claim Him indulgent, the malevolent 
as terrible. 

All that is spiritual, and in which 
the soul has really a part, leads to 
God, to piety. The soul cannot 
move, wake up, open its eyes with- 
out feeling God. We feel God 
with the soul, as we feel the air with 
the body. 

Dare I say it ? We may know 
God easily, provided we don't strain 
after definitions of Him. 

We can comprehend earth only 
after we have learned to know hea- 
ven ; without the world of religioa 


Mormeur Jovherfs Thoughts. 


the visible world would be a hope- 
less enigma. 

Whatever presents to man a 

spectacle of which he can neither 

.determiDe the cause nor the limits, 

leads him to the idea of God, that 

is to say of Him who is infinite. 

The God of metaphysics is but 
an idea, but the God of religion, 
the Creator of heaven and earth, 
the Sovereign Judge of actions and 
thoughts, is a force. 

The universe obeys God in the 
same way that the body obeys the 
soul that fills it. 

The world was made as the 
spider's web is made ; God drew it 
from his bosom, his will wove it, 
spread it out and hung it in space. 
What we call the void is His in- 
visible plenitude: His power is a 
ball, but a substantial ball, round 
which is an inexhaustible whole, for 
ever winding off*, while for ever re- 
maining entire. To create the 
world, a grain of matter sufficed, 
for all we see, this mass that con- 
founds us, is but a grain created 
and set in motion by the Eternal. 
By its ductility, by the cavities it 
encloses and the workman's art, it 
presents in the decorations evolved 
from it a kind of immensity. All 
things appear full to us, all are 
empty — rather they are hollow. 
The elements themselves are empty, 
God only is full. But this grain of 
matter, where was it ? It was in 
the bosom of God, where it now is. 

** Nothing is made out of nothing," 
they say, but the sovereign power 
of God is not nothing; it is the 
source of matter as well as of 

The world is a world by virtue 
of form — its base is but an atom. 
By withdrawing his breath from it, 
the Creator might cause the whole 
volume to collapse, and destroy it 
easily. By this hypothesis, the 
univorse would leave neither wreck 
nor ruinp, but become what it was 
before time, a grain of flattened 

metal, an atom in the void, less, a 

By having matter constantly 
placed before our eyes, we are pre- 
vented seeing it. In vain the work- 
man is extolled by laying before us 
the marvels of his work. The mass 
confines us, the object distracts us, 
and the end constantly indicated, 
is constantly impossible to see. 

God multiplies intelligence, 
which, like fire is communicated 
ad infinitum : kindle a thousand 
torches at one torch, its flame re- 
mains for ever the same. 

Could God have made human life 
merely to comtemplate the course of 
it, to watch its falls, its plays, its 
varieties, or to give himself the 
spectacle of hands ever in motion, 
transmitting the torgh one to the 
other? No, God only makes for 

Our immortality is awarded to us 
by an innate revelation, infused into 
our minds. God himself in creating 
them, laid the word, engraved the 
truth, and the sound, and the lines 
last them for ever indestructnble. 
Btit in life God whispers us and illu- 
mines us in secret. To hear him 
there roust be inner silence, to 
perceive his light we must close 
our senses and look within. 

Our souls are always fully living, 
in sickness, fainting, dying, and still 
more so after death. 

It is not allowable to speak to 
men of destruction except to make 
them think of duration, or of death 
except to make them think of life ; 
for death pursues life, and destruc- 
tion hastens after duration. 

Our flesh is but our pulp, our 
bones, membranes, nerves are but 
the framework of the shell in which 
we are shut up as in a case. It is by 
exfoliations that the corporal en- 
velope is disposed, but the kernel it 
contains, the invisible being it 
encloses, remains indestructible. 
The grave swallows, but does not 


Mojmeur Joubert's Thoughts. 


absorb xxb, we are consumed, but 
not destroyed. 

God's anger is but for a moment, 
bis divine compassion is eternal. 

The fear of God is as necessary 
to hold as steadfast to right, as 
the fear of death is to hold us to 

God loyes each man as much as 
be does the whole human race. 
Weight and number are nothing in 
bis eyes. Eternal, Infinite, he 
knows only immense love. 

Heaven owes us only what it 
gives us, and often gives us what it 
does not owe us. 

Nothing is lost in the moral world 
as nothing is annihilated in the 
material. All our thoughts and 
feelings here below are but the 
beginning of thoughts and feelings 
that will he finished elsewhere. 

Where do our ideas go ? Into 
the memory of God. 

Gt)d, when creating them speaks 
to souls and to nature, and gives 
them instructions, the sense of 
wbich they forget, but the impres- 
sion of which endures. Of this 
word and ray of light there survive 
amid the darkest obscurity of the 
soul and the greatest inattention of 
the mind a kind of murmur, and 
twilight that never ceases, and that 
soon or late distant us in our out- 
ward dissipations. 

Will God rank on a par beautiful 
thoughts and beautiful actions ? 
Those who have sought them, 
delighted in them, loved them, will 
they be recompensed ? Will the 
philosopher and politician be paid 
for their plans as the good man will 
be paid for his good acts? And 
useful labours, have they in God's 
eyes a merit like good morals ? 
Perhaps so, but the first prize is 
not so sure as the second, and will 
not be the same. God has not put 
into our soul the hope and certainty 
of it, other motives determine us. 
And yet I can fancy Bossuet, 
F^neloDy PJato carrying their works 

before God, even Pascal and La 
Bruyere, even Vauvenargues and La 
Fontaine, for their works paint their 
souls and mav be counted in heaven. 
But it seems to me that J. J. 
Kousseau and Montesquieu dare 
not present theirs, for they put 
into them only their intelligence, 
their temper, and their efibrts. As 
to Voltaire, his paint him also, and 
they will be counted to him, I 
think, but to his cost. 

God takes account of the 
centuries. He pardons the gro9s- 
nesses of the one, and the re- 
finements of the other. Ill-known 
by the one, misconceived by the 
other, he sets down in his just 
balance, as extenuating circum- 
stances, the superstitions and the 
incredulity of the time in which we 
live. We live in a sick age, he sees 
it. Our intelligence is hurt, he 
will pardon this, if we give him the 
whole of what is left healthy. 

We must go heaven, there are the 
types of all things, of all truth, all 
pleasure, of which here below we 
have but the shadow. Such is the 
supreme beauty of this world that to 
name adequately what is there found, 
or even to indicate with exactitude, 
would suffice to form a fine style 
and to make a fine book. 

Beyond the world and life there 
is no more groping. There is but 
inspection, and all looked at is 

It seems to me in the distant 
future of another life, those will be 
happiest who have not had here 
one single moment they can recall 
with pleasure. Above there, as 
here below, memory will form an 
important part of our joy and grief. 

Heaven is for those who think of 

Piety is a sublime wisdom, sur- 
passinc; all other forms of wisdom, 
a kind of genius that gives wings 
to the mind. None is wise that is 
not pious. 

Piety is a kind of modesty that 


Monsieur JouberVs Thoughts. 


make9 iis turn awny our thoughts 
as we turn awav our eves from what 
13 forbidden. 

Piety is to the heart what poetry 
is to the imagination, what a noble 
t^vittem of metaphysics is to the 
«nind, it exorcises the full range of 
our pensibility, it is a feeling from 
■which the soul receives such a modi- 
fication that through it it become.'* 
full or orbed, and attains all the 
perfection of which it is susceptible. 

Piety lathe sole means of escapiug 
the dryness which the labour of 
reflection inevitably brings iutD the 
tsources of our sensibility. 

A piety more tender than 
reasoned out suits women, while 
for men a piety grave rather thau 
tender is becoming. 

Piety binds us to what is most 
powerful, to God, and to what is 
feeblest, to children, to the aged, the 
infirm, the poor, tlie unhappy, the 
tifflicted. Without piety old age 
fihocksthe eye, infirmities are repug- 
nant, imbecility disgusts. With 
})iety we see in old age the fulness 
of years, in infirmities but suf- 
fering, in imbecility misfortune, 
and we only feel respect, compas- 
sion, and a desire to relieve. 

Charity is a kind of piety. 
Disgust is so completely silenced 
wliere charity i?, that it may be said 
that all forms of affliction have an 
attraction for the pious. 

Beligion makes it a duty even 
for the poor to be liberal, noble, 
generous, magnificent from charity. 

God has planted in man not only 
love of self, but love of his fellow- 
man as well. The Why of the most 
part of our qualities is that man is 
man, that he is good, that he is the 
work of God. 

To love God and be loved by him, 
to love our fellow men and be loved 
by them, this is morality and 
religion, in both love is all, the 
bcmnning, middle, and end. 

It is God's will that we love even 
bis enemies. 

We must make man insatiable for 
God ; it is a hunger which will 
unfortunately be often enough 
interrupted by his passions and 

To think of God is an action. 

We must love what God fives 
and withholds, love what he wills 
and wills not. 

God loves the soul, and since 
there is an attraction that draws 
the soul to God, there is on?, if I may 
dare use the expression, that draws 
God to the soul. His delight is in 
the soul of man. 

We are enlightened because God 
shines upon ui*, we are upright be- 
cause he touches us, God as light 
enlightens us, as a rule he keeps 
us erect. This rule undiscemed 
but felt, serves as criterion in our 
judgments of things to be estimated 
bv other means than that of the 

God ! and thence all virtues, all 
duties. If there be one in which 
the idea of God has no part, there 
is in it invariably some defect, or 
some excess ; number, weight or 
measure is lacking — things in which 
there is divine exactitude. 

It is only in God we can see 
clearly our duties. This is the only 
background upon which they are 
always legible to the mind. 

None is happy but the good, the 
wise, the holy, but the holy more 
than the others, so completely is 
human nature made for holiness. 

The just, the beautiful, the good, 
the wise, is what is conformable to 
God's ideas of the just, the beau- 
tiful, the good, the wise. Take God 
away from high philosophy, and 
there is an end of clearness ; he is 
the li^ht and sun of it, it is he that 
illumines all. In lumine tuo vide^ 
himus lumen. 

Let us render ourselves acceptable 
to God : we can do so in all times, 
places, or states of decline. The 
triendship of God, if it may be so 
expressed, is easier to gain than the 


Monsieur JouherVs Tlioughis. 


friendthip of men, for God takes 
account of our efforts. 

We must yield to heavcD, and 
resist men. 

We judge ourselves according to 
the Judgment of men, inntead of 
judging ourselves according to the 
judgment of heaven. God is the 
odIj mirror in which man can know 
himself, in all others be can only 
Bee himself. 

When God withdraws from the 
world, the wise man withdraws into 

Those only watch, O my God, 
who think of Thee, and love Thee. 
All others sleep, they dream and 
follow phantoms. Thou only art 
reality. Nothing is right but to 
occupy heart and mind with Thee, 
to do all things for Thee, to be 
moved only by Thee. But is man 
made to enjoy here below such a 
felicity ? If he were capable of it, 
he would have attained his per- 

The forgetfulness of things of 
earth, the will fixed on things in 
heaven, the exemption from all 
ardour, from all care, from all 
trouble and effort; the plenitude 
of life without agitation, the joy of 
feeling without the labour of thought, 
the raptures of ecstasy without the 
preparation of meditation, in a word, 
pure spirituality in the midst of the 
world, amid the tumult of the 
senses— -this is the happiness but of 
a minute, of an instant, but this 
instant's piety sheds a suavity over 
our months and years. 

Beligion is the poetry of our 
heart*, it has enchantments that 
are useful to our morals, it gives 
both happiness and virtue. 

Piety is not a religion, although 
it is the soul of all religions, a man 
has not a religion when he has only 
pious intentions, just as he has not 
a country when be has only philan* 
thropy* We have a country, and 
are citieens of a country only when 
we decide on observing and de- 

fending certain laws, obeying certain 
magistrates, and adopting certaia 
modes of being and action. 

Belieion is neither a theology, 
nor a theosophy ; it is more, it is a 
discipline, a law, a yoke, an in« 
dissoluble engagement. 

Without the dogma, morality is 
but maxima and sentences ; with the 
dogma, it becomes precept, obliga- 
tion, necessity. 

Can wo not say that since the 
coming of Christ, God has infused 
into nature more light and grace? 
It seems, indeed, since that time 
there has been in the world a more 
general knowledge of nil the duties, 
a more common and diffused facility 
to practise the true virtues and all 
the great virtues. 

We ought to love religion as a 
kind of country and nurse. It is 
it that nurtures our virtues, shows 
us heaven, teaches us to walk in the 
paths of duty. 

. Beligion is the literature and 
science of one ; the joy and duty of 

O Religion! thou givest a light 
to ignorance, a virtue to weakness, 
an aptitude to the foolish, a talent 
even to incapacity. 

No doctrine was ever so adjusted 
as the Christian doctrine to all the 
natural wants of the human heart 
and mind. The pomp and show 
with which the Church is reproached 
were the effect, and are the proof 
of its incomparable excellence. 
Whence, in effect have proceeded 
this power and these riches, carried 
to excess, if not from the enchant- 
ment it cast over the whole world ? 
Enraptured by its beauty, millions 
of men from age to age loaded it 
with gifts, legacies, cessions. It 
had the gift of making itself loved, 
and that of making men happy. 
This it was that wrought the 
prodigy. This it was that built up 
its power. 

Men can*t speak against Christi- 



Monsieur Jouberfa ThoughU. 


aaity without anger, nor speak of 
it without love. 

In Christianity, above all in 
Catholicism, the mysteries are 
purely speculative truths, whence 
spring, by the union of one mystery 
with another, truths eminently 

Beligion forbids to believe beyond 
what it teaches. 

When men cannot believe there 
has been a revelation, they believe 
nothing fixedly, firmly, invariably. 

The opinion men have of things 
divine is not the same in all times 
nor in all places, but necessarily in 
all times and places there was one 
defined, fixed, sacred, and in- 

All strong religions are furious 
till they reign. Old religions, like 
old wine, warm the heart but do not 
heat the brain. 

Austere sects are at first the most 
reverenced, but moderate sects have 
ever been the most lasting. 

Identity of belief unites men 
more than identity of knowledge, 
it is, doubtless, because belief comes 
from the heart. 

It id allowed to lament, but it is 
never allowed to laugh at the re- 
lii):ion of others. 

We should attack superstition by 
religion, not by physics ; this is a 
ground on which it is not. If you 
lead it thither by changing its 
nature, you make it at the same 
time lose all idea of heaven, and 
instead of correcting it, you risk 
rendering it worse. 

Superstition is the only religion 
of which low souls are capable. 

All those who are devoid of 
religion are deprived of one virtue, 
and did they possess all the others 
they could not be perfect. 

Which is the more incongruous, 
a religion without virtue, or virtues 
without religion ? 

Incredulity is only a mode of being 
of. the intellect, but impiety is a 
real vice of the heart. There enter 

into this sentiment horror for what 
is divine, scorn for men, and con- 
tempt for simplicity. 

There are two species of atheism, 
one tending to dispense with the 
idea of Ood, the other to dispense 
with His intervention in human 

Irreligion through ignorance is a 
condition of inward hardness and 
barbarism. The mind that no be- 
lief, no faith, has softened or tem- 
pered remains in a state of wildness, 
incapable of receiving a certain 
culture, a certain seed-sowing. But 
dogmatic incredulity is a condition 
of irritability and excitement. It 
brings us into a state of perpetual 
warfare with ourselves, our educa- 
tion, our habits, our early opinions. 
With others, our fathers, brothers, 
friends, neighbours, our former mas- 
ters, with public order, which we 
consider disorder, with the present 
time which we think less enlightened 
than it ought to be ; with the past 
whose ignorance and simplicity we 
feel contempt for. The future, and 
mankind in its future eternity, are 
the two idols, the sole idols of 
systematic incredulity. 

The difference is great between 
accepting Mahomet or Luther as 
idols, and cringing at the feet of 
Itousseauand Voltaire. In following 
Mahomet, men at least believed 
they were obeying God, in listening 
to Luther they believed they were 
obeying the Bible. And perhaps 
we ought not to cry down the dis- 
position men have of abandoning to 
those whom they believe to be the 
friends of God the care of regula- 
ting their conscience and forming 
their minds. Considered merely 
with reference to present social 
utility, this disposition is useful 
and conformable to order. It is 
subjection to irreligious minds that 
is fatal and essentially depraving. 

If science and instruction gain 
nothing by faith, universal morality 
gains immensely by it, in maintain- 


Monsieur Jouberfs Thoughts. 


Uig inferior minds in Bentiments of 
doailitjT nod subordinatioD, which 
&r them are a virtue, a duty, a 
nieaoB to ensure a tranquil life, an 
indiapensable oondition of their 
bappinesfi, and of the kind of merit 
which eau do them honour. 

Virtue is not an easy thing, why 
should religion be so ? 

There is a vast diderence between 
credulity and faith; one is a natural 
defect of the mind, the other a vir- 
tue ; the first arises from extreme 
feebleness, the principle of the second 
is a gentle laudable docility, quite 
compatible with force and even most 
favourable to it. 

Shut your eyes and you will see. 

To reach the regions of light we 

must pass through clouds. Some 

atop at the clouds, others are able 

to get beyond them. 

We must suspect we ourselves 
are mistaken about poetry, when we 
don't think as poets do, and in re- 
ligion when we don't think as holy 
men do. 

Let us be men with man, and al- 
ways children before God, for we 
are in truth but children in His 
eyes. Even old age in the presence 
of eternity is but the first instant 
of the morning. 

With God we must be neither 
men of science nor philosophers, but 
children, slaves, leiEuruers and at 
utmost |>oet8. 

We mttst be religious with sim- 
plicity, self-abandonmeut, guileless- 
ness, aud not with dignity, ban totiy 
gravity or mathematically. 

Devotion embellishes tlie soul, 
more o^^peci&lly the soul of youth. 

The undevt)ut lack tenderness of 

Whea. humility is not the com- 
psuioQ of devotion, the latter in- 
evitably becomea'prtde. 

Humility becomes man in the 
presence of God, as modesty be- 
comes a child in the presence of 
Could there be something above 

and beyond faith-— a sight, a vision, 
I know not what ray could give 
more light to certain men than to 
certain others ; and during the daj 
of life, would God manifest Him- 
self out of the cloud to some. But 
eveu could it be, who dare flatter 
himself that to him it was given. 

God illumines those whose 
thoughts and eyes are towards him. 

The idea of God is a light, a light 
that guides and gladdens, prayer is 
its aliment. 

The best prayers are those in 
which there is nothing distinct, and 
which accordingly participate of 
simple adoration. God hears only 
thoughts and feelings. Inward 
words are all He hears. 

The prie-Dieu is an article of 
furniture indispensable to good 
order. Where it is not, there 
are no penates, no respect. 

Pray this prayer to God : ** Being 
without end and without beginning. 
Thou art what man conceives as 
best. As a ray of light is contained 
in all that shines, a ray of Thy 
goodness is reflected in all virtue. 
All that we can love, all that is 
lovable, shows a portion of Thy 
essence, an appearance of Thyself. 
All the beauties of earth are but sha- 
dows projected from those in heaven. 
Make us like Thee, so far as our 
gross nature will permit this resem- 
blimce, in order that we may parti- 
cipate in Thy happiness so far as 
this life permits it. 

To opeak to God of our wishes 
and our afl'airs, is this permitted P 
Wo may say that those who from 
respect abstain from doing so, and 
those who do so in full trust and 
simplicity, do well. 

We must ask for virtue at all 
coat, and with fervour, for prosperity 
timidly and with resignation. To 
ask is to receive, when we ask real 

What renders worship useful is 
its publicity, its external manifesta- 
tion, its noise, pomp, animation and 



Monsieur JouberVs Thoughts. 


observance, uDiversallj and visibly 
insinuated into all the details of 
public and private life. It is this 
alone that constitutes festivals, sea-- 
sons, and the real varieties of the 
year. Hence, we may particularly 
say that singing, that bells, incense, 
fasting, abstinence, &c., were pro- 
foundly wise institutions, things 
useful, important, necessary, indis- 

There are no real festivals except 
religious festivals. The poor man 
by resting on those holy days offers 
to God the sacrifice of his wages. 

Beh'gious evolutions, such as pro- 
cessions, genuflexions, bowing of the 
body and head, and stations are 
neither ineffectual nor unimportant. 
They bend the heart to piety and 
bow the mind to faith. 

Beligion is a fire that example 
keeps alive, and which dies out if 
not communicated. 

In order to be pious we must 
become little. The attitudes which, 
by making us bend our liinbi*, lessen 
their size or bow down their height, 
are favourable to piety. Also, it is 
said piety leads us to annihilate 
ourselves before God. 

The cererronies of Catholicism 
school to politeness. 

God is spirit and truth. He sees 
all, knows all, contains all things 
in Himself. God is justice: He 
punishes all faults. God is good- 
ness : He pardons the penitent. 
God is compassion : He pities our 
sufferings. We should daily pray 
to Him, fix our thoughts upon this 
light that purifies, upon this fire 
that consumes our corruptions, 
upon this model that regulates us, 
upon this peace that calms our 
agitation, upon this principle of 
nil-being that renews our virtue. 
We should offer Him a daily sacri- 
fice: sacrifice of our bodies by 
bearing pain with patience, as one 
of His commandments; by pleasure, 
in abstaining from it. Sacrifice of 
our hearts, by loving Him above all 

things, giving all things for Him ; 
by subordinating to His love our 
tenderest attachments ; sacrifice of 
our minds by repressing all curi- 
osity that removes us from Him, by 
renouncing, for Him, a portion of 
our reason, by believing, out of 
love for Him, what he would have 
us believe ; sacrifice of our fortunes, 
by bearing patiently bad fortune, 
and for His sake giving up a portion 
of the good. 

We must decorate for the eyes 
of men the victims that ofier them- 
selves to God. 

Great saints may be great sin- 
ners, because they are men, that i» 
to say, because they are free. 
Liberty explains all faults, all 
crimes, all misfortunes ; but it also 
constitutes all merit. 

Holy men of intellect appear to 
me superior to philosophers. They 
live more happy, more useful, more 
exemplary lives. 

Priests are the true philosophers,, 
though they reject the name; the 
true friends of wisdom, of public 
and private order. 

Good priests are the best friends 
men can have, and the best guidee 
they can have to conduct them in 
the ways of virtue, and in the 
paths of perfection. They alone 
know, at least they alone prescribe,, 
them. Generally their affections 
are conformable with their doctrines, 
and in their doctrines is a wisdom 
superior to them and to us. 

Why is even a bad preacher lis- 
tened to with pleasure by the 
pious ? Because he speaks to them 
of what they love. But you, whe 
expound religion to the men of 
this age, and speak to them of what 
perhaps they have loved or desire 
to love, bear in mind that they do 
not yet love it, and in order to 
make them love it be careful to 
speak with power. 

You may do what you will, men 
only believe God, and he alone can 
persuade them who believes God 


Monsieur Jovhert*s Tlioughts. 


has spoken to him. None can im- 
part faith if he ha? it not. The 
persuaded persuade just as the in- 
iiulgent diiiarm. 

As it often happens that the 
doctor makes his healing draught 
by his own temperament, and the 
moralist his morality hy his charac- 
ter, the theologian often preaches 
theology by his temper. 

It is tl)eir self-confidence, and 
their private faith in their own per- 
sonal infallibility that displeases in 
•certain theologians. It might be 
said to them : Never doubt your 
doctrine, but sometimes you may 
doubt jfour own demonstrations. 
Modesty becomes dignity, it be- 
comes even majesty. We should 
carry our distrust of self even into 
the exposition of the most sacred 
and indubitable truths. 

It was the priesthood, that is to 
say a state iu which there was much 
meditation and leisure, which gave 
Hebrew literature its existence and 

Without the allusious to the 
Bible in the good books written in 
4)ar language, there would be 
nothing in them familiar, simple, or 

The holy scriptures are easy to 
translate into any language, because 
to do 80 it needs only common, 
popular, necessary words, which 
are to be found everywhere. 

To translate the Bible we should 
choose words that have space in 
them ; forms of construction in 
which nothing is too strictly joined, 
nor over - polished, words and 
phrases that have a sound of anti- 
quity in them. 

The Bible is to religion what the 
Iliad is to poetry. 

It requires the amplest leisure, 
time on hand, and study to relish 
the beauties of Homer, and to com- 
prehend them we have to dream 
over them. It take.s but a moment, 
IdoD*t say of attention but of lis- 
tening, to comprehend and receive 

into ourselvfs the beauties of the 
Bible, beauties v^hich expand or 
condense according to the varions 
dispositions and various capacities 
of minds, so that they enter into 
the smallest and fill entirely the 
greatest, and the intelligence of the 
man, according as it is more or less 
well disposed, receives in plenitude 
from it as soon as it opens an access 
to them. 

The Bible teaches good and evil ; 
the G-ospel, on the contrary, seems 
written for the elect ; it is the book 
of innocence. The first was made 
for earth, the other seems made 
for heaven. According as one or 
other of these books is most circu- 
lated in a nation, different religious 
tempers are nourished. 

There are in the Scriptures many 
things which, without being per- 
fectly clear, are, nevertheless, true. 
It was necessary to keep us, by 
obscurity, in fear and in the merit 
of faith. We should dwell on 
what is clear, and touch lightly 
on what is obscure, throw light on 
what is uncertain by what is mani- 
fest, on what is clouded by what is 
serene, on what is nebulous by 
what is lucid, on what embarrasnes 
and bafiles reason by what satisfies 
it. The Jansenists did just the re- 
verse. They laid stress on what is 
obscure, uncertain, and painful, and 
pass slightly over the rest; they 
eclipse the luminous, consoling 
truths by interposing the opaque 
and terrible truths. Application : 
muhi vocath this is a clear truth ; 
pauci electi, this is an obscure one. 
* We are children of wrath ;" this 
is a sombre, clouded, terrible truth. 
" We are all children of God, He 
came to save sinners, not the 
righteous; He loves all men, and 
desires the salvation of all." Here 
are truths in which are clearness, 
sweetness, serenity, light. Let us 
repeat and confirm the rule ; 1st. 
There are many oppositions, even 
apparent contradictions in the 


Monsieur Jouberts Thoughts. 


Sc^rptures, and in the doctrines of 
^e')Churcb, not one of which, 
»eyertbele8s is false. 2Dd. God 
j)laced them there, or permitted 
tkem, in order to keep us, by per- 
plexity and uncertainty, in fear 
and in the merit of faith. We 
should temper what scares reason 
by what tranquilizes it, what is 
austere by what is consolatory. 
The Jansenists disturb the serenity, 
and don't illumine the obscure. 
We should not, however, condemn 
them for what they say, since it is 
true, but for what they do not 
say, for it is true also, and even 
more true, that is to say, a truth 
more easily grasped, more complete 
in its circle nnd in its points. The- 
ology, when they expose it, has but 
half its disc, and their morality 
looks at God with only one eye. 

The Jansenists carry into religion 
a greater spirit of reflection, greater 
depth than the Jesuits : they bind 
themselves more with its sacred 
bonds. In their thoughts there is 
an austerity constantly circumscrib- 
ing their will in duty; their under- 
standing, in short, has more Chris- 
tian habits. But ihey seem to love 
God without love, solely from 
reason, duty, justice. The Jesuits 
on the contrary, seem to love him 
from pure inclination, admiration, 
gratitude, tenderness ; in short, 
because it is a delight to do so. 
In their books of piety there is 
joy for the reason that in them 
nature and religion are in harmony. 
In those of the Jansenists there is 
Badness and an ever watchful 
restraint, for the reason that in 
them nature is kept ^perpetually 
in fetters by religion. 

The Jansenists tell us to love 
God, the Jesuits make us love Him. 
The doctrine of the latter is tilled 
with inaccuracies, perhaps with 
errors ; but, strange to say, and 
incontestably, they are better direc- 
tors of souls. 

The Jansenists hold to the rule 
more than to goodness, the Jesuits 
love goodness more than the rule. 
The first are more essentially 
scholars, the second more essen* 
tially pious. Attain goodness by 
all paths seems the device of th& 
one. Observe the rule at all cost was 
the device of the other. The first 
of these maxims it is right to tell 
all men, it can lead none astray; 
the second we ought sometimes 
practice but never counsel. GDod 
men, thoroughly tried, alone are 
capable of not abusing it. 

The Jansenist waits for the grace 
of God, in the same way that the 
quiet ist waits for his presence* 
Tlie first waits with fear, the second 
with languur; the one submits^ 
the other resigns himself very 
unequally passive, but equally fata- 

The Jansenists make grace a kind 
of fourth person of the Holy 
Trinity ; they are, without knowing 
it or wishing it, quatemitaux. St. 
Paul or St. Augustin, too much or 
too exclusively studied, endanger 
all, if I may so say. In place of 
ffrace say assistance, help, Divine 
influence, a heavenly deed; then 
we understand. This word is like 
a talisman whose charm or sorcery 
is broken by being translated ; the 
danger vanishes under analysis. 
Personifying words is a fatal evil 
in theology. 

The Jansenists had too great a 
horror of nature, which, neverthe- 
less, is the work of God. God 
put more incorruptibility into it 
than they think, so that the abso- 
lute infection of the whole mass 
was impossible. They take from 
the blessing of creation to give to 
the blessing of redemption ; they 
take from the Father to give to the 

Philosophers excuse Jansenism,, 
because Jansenism is a species of 


Monsieur JouherVs Thoiights, 


God is God ; the World ts a 
Pities ; Mattes an Appear- 
AVCE. The Body is the Mould 
OP THE Soul; Life is a Be- 

All things spring from a little, 
from almost nothing at all. An 
oak is born from an acorn, as man 
from a drop of water. And in this 
acorn and drop of water, how much 
that is superfluous ! A germ is 
but a point. The too much con- 
tains the enough ; it is the neces- 
sary place and indispensable aliment 
of it, at least in the begiuninc:. 
None should suffer it in himself; 
but he must take it in the world, 
for there would be nowhere enough 
of anything, if there were not 
always a little too much of each 
thing somewhere. 

Truth consists in conceiving or 
imagining things as God sees 
them ; virtue in gaining goodness, 
and goodness, if it is perfect, in 
having only such sentiments we 
believe an angel might have, if 
becoming what we are, while re- 
maining all he himself is, ho were 
put in our place and could see 
what we see. 

"Wisdom is repose in light; but 
it is the light itself which by the 
light it sheds, and the charms it 
works, in colouring abstractions 
hke delicate clouds, and lending 
evidence the splendour of serenity, 
that excites wisdom often to sport 
in its rays. 

There is nothing beautiful but 
God ; and after God it is the soul 
that is most beautiful : and after 
the soul, thought ; and after 
thought, the word. Therefore the 
more like God a soul is, the more 
like a soul a thought is, and the 
more like a thought a word is, the 
more beautiful it all is. 

Here are graver thoughts: I 
shall speak more gravely. The will 
of God depends on his wisdom, 
goodness, jastice, which alone limit 

his power. All that is bad shall be 
puni:^hed — all that is good shall be 
counted, and nothing shall be 
required but what was possible. 

The love of the body separates 
from God, for God has no love for 
the body. The horror of evil 
unites to Grod, for God abhors evil. 
But he loves all souls, even those 
who love evil, if they retain some 
love for him, and some horror of 
themselves in the midst of their 
aberrations. What we love in spite 
of ourselves, by force of matter, 
we must not love from choice with 
our consent, for this would be 
loving it to excess, and there lies 
the evil. 

To establish the kingdom of God, 
or the existence of all good, is the 
law of policy or of the government 
of peoples and of economy, or of 
the government of the house, 
and that of morality, or of the 
government of self-law, is what is 
obligatory, from which nothing can 
release us, not even the goodness of 

1 resume my joy and wings and 
fly to other lights. An object, 
whatever it may be, is more or less 
agreeable to us, according as it 
corresponds, more or less, in all 
points with its type or model which 
is in the ideas of God. Our quali- 
ties are more or less praiseworthy, 
even more or less real, more or less 
eminent, more or less worthy of 
their name, according as they are, 
more or less, in their action and 
essence conformable to their rule, 
the idea of which is in God. 

Truly we do see all things in 
God, and see nothing except in 
Him, at least in metaphysics. With- 
out his idea and his ideas, we could 
perceive nothing, distinguish no- 
thing, explain nothing, abov^ all, 
estimate nothing according to its 
intrinsic rate, this secret and snored 
rate which, placed in the heart and 
centre of each thing, alone marks 
exactly when we read it by this 


Monsieur Jouberfs Tlioughts. 


ligbt, its precise degree of merit, 
ita real weight and just value. 

Nothing pleases us in matter 
but that which is almost spiritual 
in it, its emanations, as it were; 
but that which almost touches the 
soul, as perfumes and sounds do ; 
but that which is like an impres- 
sion left on it by some intelligence 
as the festoons and designs that 
mark it ; but that which creates an 
illusion as forms and colours do; 
in short but that in it which seems 
to have been the product of thought 
or to have been disposed for some 
purpose, indicating will. Thus we 
can only love in the solidities of 
the world, those which have varia- 
tion ; and in that which is subtle 
iu it, we owe our most exquisite 
pleasure to that which hardly has 
an existence in those almost tran- 
acendant exhalations, those invisible 
undulations which, while penetrat- 
ing, elevate us above and beyond 
our senses. Pressed and jostled 
by bodies, we are really touched by 
the spirit only of thingB, so much 
are we ourselves spirit. 

I said truly : matter is an appear- 
ance; all is little, and nothing is 
much ; for what is the whole world ? 
I have thought over this, I believe 
it, I almost see it, and I shall boldly 
say it. The whole world is merely 
a little condensed ether, ether but 
a little space, and space but a point, 
endowed with the susceptibility of 
Fpreading out into a small space, 
when developed, but ^hicli had 
almost none when it emanated from 
the bosom of God. Newton him- 
self said, **When God wished to 
create the world, he ordered a por- 
tion of space to become and to re- 
main impenetrable.** With its 
gravitations, its attractions, its 
momentum, and all its blind forces, 
that scientific men make such noise 
about, with its enormous masses 
that confound our senses, all matter 
is but a particle of metal, but a 
hollow grain of glas", a soap bubble 

played on by the chiaroscure, a 
shadow, where nothing weighs bat 
on itself, is impenetrable but to 
itself, attracts or holds but itself, 
seems strong or great but to extreme 
smallness, to the infinite littleness 
of the particles of this whole, which 
is well nigh nothing. When weighed 
in the hand of God what does this 
world weigh? When seen by the 
eye of God what is its extent ? 
When he sees it, what does it seem 
to him ? When he penetrates it, 
what does he find in it ? This is 
the question. The most terrible of 
imaginable catastrophes, the con- 
flagration of the world, what else 
could it be but the crackling, the 
flash, the vapour of a grain of 
powder in a candle? O truth! it 
is only souls and God which ofier 
grandeur and solidity to thought, 
once it enters into itself, after 
having gone through all things, 
sounded all things, tested all things 
in its crucible, purified all things 
by its light and the light of heaven, 
gone into the deep of things, known 
all things. 

Or Maw. Or the Obqans. Of 
THE Soul asd Intellectual 

There are two existences, which 
man shut up in himself may know : 
his own and God's ; I am, thereforo 
God is — but bodies he can know 
through sensation only. 

We see all things through our- 
selves. We are a medium comstantly 
interposed between objects and our- 

Man, properly speaking, inhabits 
only his head and heart. All places 
not there, may in vain be before his 
eyes, at his side, or under his feet, 
he is not there. 

The body is the tent in which 
our existence is encamped. 

It is the face almost alone that 
denotes the individual. The bodv 
marks the sex rather than the iu- 

1877.J Mental Science as a Branch of Liberal Culture. 265 

dindaal, the species more than the 

Below the head, shoulders, and 
breast, begins the animal or that 
part of the body which the soul 
ought not to delight in. 

There is on the face something 
luminous which we find in no other 
part of the body. 

The smile dwells upon the lips, 
but laughter has its seat and beauty 
upon the teeth. 

In the eyes there is mind, soul, 
and body. 

To the head alone belongs re- 
flection, but the whole body has 
memory. The feet of a dancer, the 
fingers of a clever musician, have 
ill a high degree the faculty of re- 

The voice is a human sound that 
nothing inanimate can exactly 
counterfeit. It has an authority, a 
property of insinuation that is so. 



Bt the Bey. Joun MacMaugn, LL.D 

Mbxtal science, owing probably to 
misconceptions prevalent respecting 
its impractical nature, seems in the 
present day scarcely to hold its 
legitimate position as a branch of 
liberal cultivation. This is a 
prejudice which ought to vanish 
before superior knowledge, being 
built on grave error, both as regards 
the objects of mental science, as 
well as the effects of a study of it. 
The objects are not mere airy 
abstractions, but in a manner quite 
as real as those of other sciences, 
while the effects of a study of it 
transcend, as a general rule, those 
of speculative pursuits. Psychology, 
when properly taught, tends to 
exercise a well-defined influence 
over our active powers, for what 
is the spring of action in human 
agents but the mind itself, whether 
we call it Intellect, Emotion, or 
AVill? Inasmuch, then, as mental 

science seeks to lay bare the 
mechanism of the motive power 
in men — its wheels and pullies — 
and to explain, by showing how it 
works, what the mind is equal to, 
and what it is not, such knowledge 
ought to prevent waste of energy 
upon useless labour. 

Some persons level a shaft 
against the study of the human 
intellect, on the ground of its being 
so exclusively occupied with theory, 
a word much disliked by unscientific 
minds. These, however, should 
reflect whether it is possible, in the 
the nature of things, or if possible, 
desirable — to isolate practice 
from theory. Many admittedly 
cherish contempt for theory, and 
yet always act — unconsciously of 
course — from the impulse of a theory 
of some description or other, fre- 
quently one of rude or improvised 
construction. But if we allow, for 


Mental Science as a Branch of Liberal Culture. [Feb. 

argument's sake, that a 'man could 
engage in any practical matter with- 
out some theory, some idea of what 
he was attempting — would not such 
entirely aimless conduct be to strike 
at random and in the dark ? The 
truth is, theory, when correctly 
devised and understood, constitutes 
wel-directed action, because it em- 
bodies principles arrived at by care- 
ful generalization from experience. 
There need, then, be no irreconcil- 
able divorce between what is 
theoretical and practical, inasmuch 
as a source of mediation between 
the two is discoverable in due 
measurepient of the intellectual fa- 
culties, and in keeping them asLocke 
says, within the tether of the under- 
standing. Intellect is the instrument 
by which man works on everything, 
theoretical or otherwise, and pro- 
bably one of the highest functions 
of genius is fulfilled when correct 
theorizing is made by a master mind 
to issue in improved practice. 

But probably, of the numerous 
practical benefits of a study of men- 
tal phenomena one of the most 
valuable, and lying at the very root of 
education, is Uie discipline of atten- 
tion. At the threshold of the gorge- 
ous Templeof Knowledge sits Atten- 
tion as Uie noble faculty by which 
we acquire the power of continuous 
thought. It is thus that men are 
apparently so diverse in theu* 
intellectual powers, when really it 
arises from some having acquired, 
and others not, the habit of at- 
tention. All alike seem capable of 
understanding the cogency of a 
single inference, detached from a 
long train of reasoning. All, how- 
ever, are not equally endowed with 
the ability of connecting together 
conclusion after conclusion, no 
matter how protracted the series. 
Attention bestows this prerogative 
on those who do not shrink from 
the arduousness of uninterrupted 
thought. In fact genius and at- 
ientioa seem akin to each other. 

one without the other seldom 
succeeds. Sir Isaac Newton being 
once complimented on his genuis, 
replied that, whatever discoveries he 
had achieved were owing rather to 
patient attention than to any other 
talent Malebranche beautifully 
says, " the discoveries of truth can 
only be made by the labour of at- 
tention. The attention of the 
intellect is a natural prayer by 
which we obtain the enlightenment 
of the reason. Without the labour of 
attention we shallnever comprehend 
the grandeur of religion, the 
sanctity of morals, the bitterness 
of all that is not God, and the 
absurdity of the passions." 

Bat in spite of this, it is most 
difficult in our ultra-utilitarian age 
to vindicate the claims of mental 
science as a plastic element in our 
fashionable curriculum of culture. 
Many ask, more especially those 
absorbed in the physical investiga- 
tion of Nature, what has psycho- 
logical science ever achieved for 
mankind ? — what definite practical 
results are traceable to, for instance, 
the Greek philosophers and the 
scholastics, or to Hume, Locke, 
Berkeley, and Kant ? Bat such a 
question is pat first in seeming 
forgetfulness of the literary life 
and labours of psychologists of all 
times, and of the simultaneous 
progress of metaphysics with civil- 

Thus, take Aristotle, that prince 
of thinkers of all time, who laid 
the foundations of mental science, 
and in doing so showed himself a 
thorough proficient in the experi- 
mental method of modem research. 
He tells us that the analysis by 
which he arrived at the laws of 
thonght was the golden gate 
through which he passed on into 
a mastery of nature. This with 
him was to tread a vast illimitable 
plain, where, by a powerful apti- 
tude for observation, he elaborated 
all the finer prtneiples of man's 

1877.] Mental Science as a Branch of Liberal Culture. 267 

inner constitution, and classed them 
as moral, logical, and political, while 
at the same time displaying a com- 
prehensive grasp over Natural Phi- 
losophy. Tliere had, as the great 
man himself remarks in his Meta- 
physics, been prior to his day, very 
searching and diversified, bat withal 
gross and one-sided investiga- 
tions and hypotheses of Nature, 
with no other advance than a creed 
of rigid materialism. Aristotle, 
however, as a psychologist, kindled 
a torch which illuminated the Tem- 
ple of creation, and in doing so 
gave an impulse to physical dis- 
covery. It is the glory of this 
sovereign brain to have shown, by 
a well reasoned out psychology, 
that no fruitful method of investi- 
gating Nature— in fact, no true 
theory of physical science — is attain- 
able on the supposition of exclud- 
ing mental agency from material 
phenomena. This pregnant axiom, 
or rather generalization fron an en- 
larged induction, at once completed 
wfaAt hitherto was deficient in cur- 
rent methods of scientific investiga- 
tion, and paved the way for the 
brilliant exploits of modem dis- 

At a more recent period, Lord 
Bacon's reformation of science, or, 
as he calls it, the Advancement of 
Learning, was dependent upon the 
fietct that, like Aristotle, ho asserted 
that no examination, or to use the 
Baconian phrase, interrogation of 
Nature, could lead to any fruitful 
consequence:', which is conducted 
according to guess-work or by giving 
actuality to mere notions. Lord 
Bacon*s advice, as Aristotle's before 
him, was that philosophers should 
have recoarse to Nature herself and 
extract from her phenomena, by 
observation and experiment, such 
information as could be legitimately 
arrived at from a previous know- 
ledge of the native faculties of the 
nnderstanding. Till the exact 
engtn of the mind^ or in other 

words, the temper and strength of 
the instrument of observation, was 
known, it was visionary to hope for 
genuine science anywhere. 

Butan illustrious thinker can now 
be mentioned whose sense of the 
proper dignity and use of mental 
science cannot be questioned — Dea 
Cartes. This subtlest of philoso- 
phers applied rare analytical genius 
to the human mind, and side by 
side with his psychology, sprang 
up as its result a truly splendid 
edifice of science pure and applied. 
It is acknowledged on all hands, 
that Des Cartes, though at the same 
time a mathematician of unusual 
calibre and originality, assigned 
mental science the post of honour. 
In thus recording his verdict on 
the paramount claims of logic and 
psychology as well as their plas- 
tic power over even the natural 
sciences, we must not forget that 
with Des Cartes' mathematical 
labours are indissolubly associated 
a development of knowledge of the 
highest significance and value. 

There had been pre\ iously to Des 
Cartes an application of analysis — 
arrived at by algebra — to geometry ; 
but he expunged those material re- 
lations which had mixed themselves 
up with algebra and rendered its 
notation bothrudeand cumbersome. 
For these he substituted a notation 
— peculiarly available for purposes 
of calculation —clear, general, and, 
like every efflux of genius, simple. 
To this profound thinker belongs 
therefore the glory of having ele- 
vated algebra to its rightful position 
as a science, the especial object of 
which is to express only the abstract 
relations of quantity. But even 
still more valuable was Des Cartes' 
discovery, by algebraic equations, of 
the properties of curves. This he 
further utilized, inasmuch as by an 
inverse process he struck out a com- 
pendious method — the wonder of 
his contemporaries and the admira- 
tion of mathematicians ever ainoe 


Mental Science as a Branch of Liberal Culture, [Feb. 

— by which he directly solved geo- 
metrical problems that had baffled 
antiquity and puzzled the learned 
world down to his own day. 

Few greater services were ever 
bestowed on the development of 
natural science than the abbreviation 
of thought in msLthemSLtxcBl formula 
by the employment of arbitrary 
signs. The analysis of functions, 
perfected by Des Cartes' extension 
of algebra to cur^*es, has been the 
forerunner to some of the most 
sublime discoveries of modem 
science. And it is most relevant 
to the present discussion to state 
ihnt the metaphysical bent of 
Des Cartes* mind— and it is well 
understood that he placed me- 
taphysics above mathematics — 
formed a valuable auxiliary to him in 
liberating algebra from its alliance 
with material conceptions, and thus 
reducing it to a purely abstract 
science. But throughout the entire 
of his intellectual career he con- 
tended for a relation subsisting 
between mental and experimental 
science, and indeed presented in 
his own case a combination— quite 
unique — of metaphysical with ma- 
thematical capacity. The late 
lamented Professor George Boole, 
of Queen's College, Cork, a man 
of striking scientific ability, was 
strongly impressed, as is shown in 
his work '* Discussions on the Laws 
of Thought," with the possibility of 
giving mathematics and metaphysics 
^ome common standpoint. His 
labours, assisted by those of M. 
Comte, Sir William Hamilton, of 
Edinburgh, Professor de Morgan, 
and others, have probably laid the 
foundation for a future co-relation 
of these two great branches of ab- 
stract inquiry. 

With Des Cartes* discoveries 
before us we need not therefore 
attempt to stigmatize mental philo- 
sophy as barren of material results, 
or as unconnected with the success 
of the experimental sciences. His 

literaiy labours certainly falsify the 
position of those who do not recog- 
nize in ordinary phenomena, any 
mutual operation between our 
cognitive faculties and matter, 
whether that of our corporeal 
frames or of the visible things 
without us. Philosophy may be 
dwarfed by a one-sided view ; for 
instance, that of M. Comte, who 
regards everj'thing beyond the 
margin of phenomena as to us 
essentially non-existent — a position 
which merges all existence into 
phenomena. But rightly to under- 
stand the relations subsisting, as 
the basis of all science, and indeed 
ordinary experience, between the 
human understanding and the 
fabric of creation ; the true cos- 
mogony and metaphysics will fall 
under Berkely's formulary, the 
reverse of Comte's — namely, that 
all phenomena merge into existence. 
There are other reasons for 
making a knowledge of the human 
mind a branch of liberal culture — 
the dignity of tlie mind itself and 
its share in the development of 
civilization. In looking over the 
pages of history one finds the in- 
tellect, that is the essential forms of 
thought, impressed upon human 
progress, as evidently as the con- 
ceptions of beauty, shape, and manli- 
ness upon a great sculptor's statue. 
Whatever may be the department, it 
is the same, whether investigation 
is concerned with phenomena of 
the animal, vegetable, or mineral 
kingdom. The mind of man in its 
laws gives the framework to the 
sciences, and directs the path of the 
inquirer. Whatever investigation 
is not conducted according to the 
essential forms of thought is mere 
guess-work, if even it is po much, 
and deserves only the scorn of the 
philosopher. It is ti)e same with 
the fine arts, where the constitu- 
tion and laws of the human under- 
standing exert similar sway, as may 
be proved by contrasting di Cerent 

1877.] Mental Science as a Branch of Liberal Culture. 


epochs and schools of painting, 
arehitectnre, and music. For ex- 
ample, in placing Mozart and 
Beethoven side hy side, it will be 
observed that these two eminent 
eomposers represent severally in 
their works the struggle for mastery 
which is being perpetually main- 
tained between the two leading 
tendencies of the intellect, namely, 
sensationalism and idealism. 

Liberal culture, therefore, cannot 
but do a man real service when it 
affords him an inkling into the con- 
etitation of the human mind, its fa- 
culties and laws, because he thereby 
learns the gauge of his work in 
every department where thought and 
its attendant action can be brought 
into requisition. When called upon 
to form his opinions, the scholar 
thai finds himself equipped with 
armour which affords some security 
against unreason. A thorough 
knowledge of mind recoils from 
any violation of the laws of assent 
as determinable by the essential 
forms of thought Here we have 
a most valuable touchstone — thanks 
to the splendid analytical genius of 
Kant— which might often be ap- 
pealed to with advantage in those 
bitter controversies which in all 
ages divide the schools. 

All have heard of that salutary 
role on which the great moralists 
of the old world justly laid so much 
stress — nosce teipmm. So far as 
self-knowledge comes from a true 
p^chology, so far it unveils the 
splendour of what is man*s real 
crown of glory : — 

" On earth there's nothing great bat 
In man there's notliing great bat 

Intrinsically it is hard to realize 
the native majesty of the human 
mind, and yet we have practical evi- 
dence of it in the natural sciences, 
the fine arts, and even the compara- 

tively prosaic departments of politics 
and government. A single exercise* 
however, of what mental science 
teaches — namely, introspection — 
reveals everything. Psychology 
is thus the golden key which 
unlocks for man the treasures of 
his rational being ; but to sound 
the depths of his own intellectual 
nature is half-way towards a com- 
prehensive knowledge of what is 
without. The ancients understood 
this when they tell us that macro- 
cosm was implied in the microcosm^ 
though unfortunately, by allowing 
too much prominence to the latter, 
they perverted science, and made 
it a system, for example, of as- 
trology and alchemy, instead of 
a-jtrouomy and chemistry. The 
human mind thus may be compared 
to the kaleidoscope, where all the 
diversified forms and colours are 
produced bv the orderly position of 
two polished surfaces, notwith- 
standing that the fragments of 
glast*, irregular in shape, are thrown 
at random into the tube. 

Is it, therefore, too much to 
affirm, is it a phantasy to believe, 
that a penetrating glance in on thf^ 
mind, its exquisite nervous and 
sensuous appeudagep, its marvel- 
lous facultiefi, its towering specu- 
lations, as well as the subtle abstract 
truths which the intellect evolves 
out of its own laws, will enable 
man to break his shell, emerge out 
of the dark cave of his dulled 
powers, and after mastering nature,, 
to soar upwards into that fiasbinji; 
sphere where human reason is 
dilated, and finds full scope for its 
godHke contemplation ? Here are 
no imperfect systems, no dogma- 
tism, no scepticism, no mental isola- 
tion shading into despair, no anoma- 
lies in the moral order of things — 
in fact, all barriers to pure know- 
ledge are simply swept away. 

Then the great mind of man is 
brought face to face with the primal 
fountain of existence, and blends 


HoUy and Ivy. 


with higher forms of thought and 
life than, as yet, it has heen brought 
in contact with. Doubts and 
struggles and errors about truth 
fade away like stars before the 
dazzle of the sun. Then man be- 
gins to sight the summit of being, 
and to grasp the substance instead 
of the shadow of things, thus real- 
izing the mind's drift and scope. 
Thus the dark veil is uplifted, and 
underneath the fringe escapes the 
gorgeous spectacle of untold splen- 
dours. A long and endless vista of 
glory is expanded before the in- 

tellect, where faltering scepiicistn 
disappears in certitude, and the 
agony of apprehiended annihilation 
iu the fruition of interminable 
existence. The mind of man thus 
contains within itself the germs of 
that deathless joy which accom- 
panies the exercise of perfect in- 
tuition in a higher state. The 
human intellect thus displays the 
lineaments of that vast architec- 
tonic mind into which, as a fathom- 
less and illimitable ocean, is ulti- 
mately emptied every rivulet of 
life, and power, and thought. 


There is a tree, and I love it well, 

It is green as green can be ; 
The emerald pride of the rural dell, 

Tis the festive Holly Tree ! 

There is a plant, whose tendrils cling 

Round the ancient castled tower ; 
It climbs the walls like an animate thing. 

And spans the desolate bower. 

The Celts of old the Holly-branch bore 

In their mystical sacred rites. 
And the Druid placed it above hia door 

To pacify woodland sprites. 

Some say the Ivy is dark and cold, ' 

That its toaoh has a deadly oliill ; 
Bat it formed a crown for a god of old. 

And it circles the wine-ct^ sUlL • 

There's a blossom that opens mid wreaths of snow, 

There's a berry grows ripe in the shade ; 
There are hearts whose luves more warmly glow 

Ia the winter grief hath made ! 

The Summer flowers their scents may fling, 

And their transient hues display ; 
Far better the leaves of an endless Spring, 

The colour that won't ecay. 

Oh ! may our friendship thus be found 

Ever green as the Htillv Tree ; 
May mine, like the Ivy, clasp thee round. 

And thine cling as cluse to me ! 


• '■ I 


Literary Notices. 



Charles KingtUy, his Letters and 
Memories of his life. Edited by his 
Wife. London: Henrj 8. King and 
Co. — There are few whose life and 
letters bo well deserve permanent 
publication as Charles Kingsley's. 
JNot that there was anything romantic 
in his career. It was uneventful 
snd commonplace enough in itself, 
but as the outcome of a noble and 
lovely nature, it is well worthy of 
admiring contemplation. So true a 
bero of the highest type, combin- 
ing such manly courage with such 
womanly tenderness, is not to be 
met with every day, and ought not 
to pass unnoticed into oblivion. 
There is no lack of men superior to 
him in creative power of intellect, 
in greatness of achievement, in 
loftiness of position and extent of 
influence; but few equal him in 
self-sacrificing devoted ness to the 
good of others, in intensity of 
family affections, in high-minded 
love of truth, in warmth and sin- 
cerity of friendship, in kindly liber- 
ality and chivalrous courtesy to all. 
It IS right that all, both now and 
hereafter, should have nu oppor- 
tunity of studying so fine and rare 
a character, whose very failings 
leant to virtue's side, and were by 
none so sincerely regretted as by 
himself. It is well that the possi- 
bility of combining freedom of 
thought and love of science with 
sacred reverence for religion should 
be clearly seen by living example. 
Such a life as Kingsley s is one of 
the best evidences of Christianity, 
more convincing than the ablest 

treatise, more effective than the 
most eloquent sermon. There has 
been a good deal of ill natured 
sneering at his so-called '* muscular 

Cnll his Christianity by what 
name you will, it would be well for 
the world if we had a little more of 
it. It is at any rate far preferable 
to mawkish pietism, wild fanaticism^ 
and sanctimonious pharisaism. 

It appears to us that Mrs. Kings- 
ley has adopted the wisest and best 
method of making known to the 
world what manner of man her 
husband was. She has very pro- 
perly abstained from any attempt 
at an elaborate biography carefully 
constructed with a view to artistic 
effect. Such an effort, if ever so 
successful, would have been more 
creditable to her head than her 
heart. Genuine and deep feeling 
does not express itself in that way. 
She has chosen a much better 
course in confining herself to a 
simple loving narrative, which in- 
cludes the main incidents of his 
life, and forms a " feeble thread " 
—as she modestly terms it — to con- 
nect the letters, which constitute 
the main feature of the work. 
Kingsley's letters are full of in- 
terest, both as compositions and as 
indications of character. They are 
very varied in subject-matter and 
style, reflecting vividly the varying 
moods of the versatile writer. Many 
of them were written in answer to 
perfect strangers, who were power- 
fully impressed by the unconven- 
tional earnestness of his works, and 


Literary Xotices. 


encouraged by the genial liberality 
of their tone to ask for his guidance 
and aid in solving their difficulties. 
To such applications he never turned 
a deaf ear, or gave a grudging reply, 
though he had little time to spare. 
He thought nothing of trouble so 
lon^ as he could be of service. 

Kingsley's letters are not unlike 
Dr. Arnold's in some respects, but 
their general effect on the mind of 
the reader is more pleasing. The 
almost puritanical seriousness and 
school master's strictness, for wh ich 
Arnold's are remarkable, is unre* 
lieved by the playful humour and 
natural ease which give such a 
charm to Kingsley's. Judging from 
Kingsley*8 letters, we should be in- 
clined to think him, if not so great 
a man as Arnold, quite as good, and 
far more agreeable. This is amply 
borne out by the testimony of those 
who had the best means of knowing. 
As a single illustration we may 
quote from the letter of Mr. John 
Martineau, his pupil — 

'*! cannot give any description of 
his daily life, his parish work, which 
will not sound commonplace. There 
were the mornings chiefly spt^nt in 
reading and writing, the afternoons in 
going from cottage to cottage, the long 
evenings in writing. It sounds mono- 
tonous enough. Bat there never was 
a man with whom life was less mono- 
tonous, with whom it was more fall to 
overflowing of variety and freshness. 
Nothing could be so exquisitely delight- 
ful as a walk with him about bis parish. 
Earth, air, and water, as well as farm- 
hoose and cottage, seemed full of his 
£Eimiliar friends. By day and by night, 
in fair weather and in storm, gratufal 
for heat and cold, rain and sunshine, 
light and soothing darkness, he drank 
in nature. It seemed as if no bird, or 
beast^ or insect, or scarcely a drifting 
cloud in the sky, passed by liim un- 
noticed, unwelcomed. He caught and 
noted every breath, every sound, every 
sign. With every person he met he 
instinctively struck some point of con- 
tact, found sometliing to appreciate — 
often, it might be, some information to 

ask for — which left the other cheered, 
self-respecting, raised for the moment 
above Mmself ; and whatever the pass- 
inff word mij;[ht be, it was given to high 
or low, genSe or simple, with an ap- 
propriateness, a force, and a genial 
courtesy — in the case of all women, a 
deferential cx)artesy — which threw its 
spell over all alike, a spell which few 
could resist 

*'So many-sided was he that he 
seemed to unite ia himself more types 
and varieties of mind and character, 
types diflering as widely as the poet 
from the man of science, or the mystic 
from the soldier ; to be filled with more 
thoughts, hopes, fears, interests, aspira- 
tions, temptations than could co-exist 
in any one man. all subdued or clenched 
into union and harmony by the force 
of one iron will, which had learnt to 
rule after many a fierce and bittei* 

** His senses were acute to an almost 
painful degree. The sight of suffering, 
the foul scent of a sick room — ^well 
used as he was to both — would haunt 
him for hours. For with all his man's 
strength there was a deep vein of 
woman in him. a nervous sensitiveness, 
an iuteusity of sympathy, which made 
him suffer when others saffered, a 
tender, delicate, soothing touch, which 
gave him power to understand and 
reach the heart ; to call out, sometimes 
almost at first sight (what he of all meu 
least sought), the inmost confidenc^rs of 
men and women ahke in all classes of 
life. And he had sympathy witli all 
moods from the deepest ^rief to lightest 
humour — for no man had a keener, 
quicker perception of the humorous 
side of everything — a love and ready 
word of praise for whatever was gooil 
or beantifal, from the greatest to the 
least, from the heroism of the martyr 
to the shape of a good horse, or the 
folds of a graceful dress. And this 
wide reaching hearty appreciation made 
a word of praise from him sweeter, to 
those who knew him well, than volumes 
of commendation from all the world 

" His every thought and word was 
penetrated with the belief, the full 
assurance, that the world — the world of 
the soldier or tlie sportsman, as well as 
the world of the student or the theolo- 
gian — was God's world, and that every- 
thing which He had made was good. 


Literary Notices, 


' Humani nihil a me oLUn^im puto* he 
■aid, taught by his wide haman sympa- 
IhieB, and encouraged by his faith in the 
Incarnation. And so he rejected, as 
fliaiiBaio and nnchristian^most of what 
is generally implied in the use of sach 
words as 'carnal.' 'unconverted/ 
* worldly/ and thereby embraced in his 
BymiMUthy, and won to faith and hope, 
many a struggHug soul, many a bruised 
reed, whom the narrow and exclusive 
ignorance of schools and religionists 
luid rejected. 

*' No human being but was sure of a 
patient, interested hearer in him. I 
have seen him seat himself, hatless, 
beaide a tramp on the grass outside his 
gate in his eagerness to catch exactly 
what he had to say, searching him as 
they sate, in his keen kindly way with 
<Iiiestion and look.' With as great a 
horror of pauperism and almsgivmg as 
any professed political economist, it was 
in practice very hard to him to refuse any- 
one. The sight of unmistakable misery, 
however caused, covered, to him, the 
multitude of sins. I recollect his pass- 
ing backwards and forwards agiin and 
again — the strong impulsive will for 
once irresolute — between the breakfast 
room and a miserable crying woman 
ontaide, and I cannot forget, though 
twenty- five years have passed since, the 
unutterable look of pain and disgust 
with which, when he had decided to 
refuse the request, he said, 'Look 
there ! ' as he pointed to his own well- 
fnrmshed table. 

** Nothing aroused him to anger so 
much as cant. Once a scoundrel, on 
being refused, and thinking that at a 
parsonage and with a parson it would 
be a successful trick, fell on liis knees on 
the door-step, turned up the whites of 
his eyes and began the disgusting 
counterfeit of a prayer. In an instant 
the man found himself, to his astonish- 
ment, seized by collar and wrist, and 
being swiftly thrust towards the gate, 
with a firm grip and a shake that 
deprived him of all inclination to resist, 
or, till he found himself safe outside it, 
even to remonstrate. 

Both Sir Charles Bunbury and 
Mr. C. Kegan Paul speak in en- 
thusiastic terms of bis charm- 
ing conversation and pleasing man- 

Kingsley appears to have derived 
from his father's side, his fondness for 
sport which clung to him all through 
life, his military spirit, and his apti- 
tude for art, which was a prominent 
and useful characteristic. From his 
mother's side be inherited the ro- 
mantic and poetic part of his nature, 
his delight in natural scenery, his 
keen interest in science and litenu 
ture, and the general force and 
originality for which he was re- 
markable. He was born in 1820, 
and such was his precocity from his 
earliest childhood, that he composed 
sermons and poems, some of which 
are here quoted, when only four 
years old — a striking illustration of 
Wordsworth's oft-quoted line, ** The 
child is father of the man.*' At 
school he is represented by the 
head master as having been : '* Truly 
a remarkable boy, original to the 
verge of originality, and yet a 
thorough boy, fond of sport, and 
up to any enterprise — a genuine 
out-of-doors English boy." A for- 
mer schoolfellow says, however, he 
" was not popular as a school-boy. 
He knew too much, and his mind 
was generally on a higher level than 

On his father's removal to Chel- 
sea, he attended lectures at King's 
College, and afterwards went to 
Magdalen College, Gambndge,wbere 
he gained a scholarship at the close 
of his first year. He was not^ 
however, a reading man in the 
sense of steadily-plodding on in 
the prescribed cause of study. He 
spent much of bis time in boating, 
fi[iBhing, hunting, driving, and box- 
ing, as well as social intercourse 
with his compeers. Yet he was 
occasionally seized with fits of 
study, during which he worked 
with great intensity, and with such 
success that at last he achieved the 
honourable distinction of a first- 
class man in classics, and senior 
optime in mathematics. 

It is scarcely possible for so ac- 


Literary Notices. 


tive and inquiring a mind to escape 
doabts and difficulties. Hence we 
are not surprised to learn that 
Kingsley was for some time in a 
state of darkness and perplexity 
when at Cambridge. But before 
the close of his career there his 
views became clear and decided 
enough for him to take orders, 
which he did with a very solemn 
flense of the responsibility he was 
incurring, and an earnest desire to 
discharge his duty fkithfully. Not 
that even then or ever afterwards 
his mind was perfectly settled, ex- 
cept as to a few general principles. 
In one letter he says, men have 
made the Bible, ''mean anything 
and nothing with their commenting 
and squabbling, and . doctrine pick- 
ing, till one asks with Pilate ' what 
is truth p ' " In another, still later, 
we find this remark : — "As for 
speculations as to what man*s soul 
or unseen element is, and what 
happens to it when he dies, theories 
of Elysium and Tartarus, and of the 
future of this planet and its inhabi- 
tants, I leave them to those who 
see no miracles in every blade of 
grass, no unfathomable mysteries 
in every animalcule, and to whom 
scripture is an easy book, of which 
they have mastered every word, by 
the convenient process of ignoring 
three- fourths of it." 

Kmgsley's first curacy was at 
Eversley, of which he soon became 
rector for the rest of his life. He 
found the parish in a very neglected 
condition, and at once threw him- 
self heart and soul into the work of 
improvement, with the happiest 
results. Before long his restless 
impetuosity led him to seek a wider 
field for hia philanthropic exertions. 
Sympathising deeply with the suffer- 
ings of the working class, he sought 
in coTij unction with a few kindred 
spirits, to better their condition, and 
as the most effectual means of doing 
this, to improve their habits and 
character. To win their confideccc 

be . professed himself a chartist, 
though by nature far more inclined 
to aristocracy than to democracy, 
and exen favoured socialism, quali- 
fied, however, with the epithet 
Christian, Though his writings and 
other labours in this line were not 
crowned with immediate success, 
there can be no doubt they were 
the germs from which have sprung 
a rich harvest of permanent good. 
Nothing can be more ungenerous 
than the reproaches cast upon him 
for having afterwards altered his 
opinions in altered circumstances. 
If in the enthusiasm and inex- 
perience of youth he was betrayed 
into the advocacy of views which 
increased knowledge of human life 
showed him to be unsound, and 
into the use of language, which 
mature reflection led him to regret, 
no one can or ever did pretend to 
deny that frotn first to last he 
was actuated by the highest and 
best motives, a consideration which 
ought for ever to silence all censure 
for a change which after all was not 
really so great as it seemed through 
misunderstanding. No sooner did 
the Bishop of London see the 
sermon which created so great an 
excitement, and led him to prohibit 
Kingsley from preaching in London, 
than he withdrew his inhibition, 
and gave Kingsley a most cordial 

In tlie midst of all his parish 
labours, -which were enough in them- 
selves to constitute a busy life, 
and his extensive correspondence, 
Kingsley found time for hard study 
and constant literary work. A 
chronological list is given of no 
less than thirty-five works published 
by him, in addition to articles on 
politics for the People^ and the 
Christian Socialist^ and occasional 
reviews, and mention is made in the 
letters of others that were not 
completed or issued. As the 
natural result of such excessive 
activity and intense thought his 


Literary Notices. 


health repeatedly broke down, his 
-eoofltitution was undermined, and 
hui liCd tbortened. 

Of hiB writings generally* it may 
be snid that they show more versa- 
tility and intensity than originality 
of thought. For his leading ideas 
he is indebted to others. It is im- 
possible to read his " Yeast" without 
being struck with the extent of bis 
obligation to Curly le, and he him- 
self repeatedly acknowledges that he 
is merely an expositor of Maurice's 
ideas. But he expounded them with 
a clearness and force, which their 
originator could not command, and 
with a manly geniality of senti- 
ment, a transparent sincerity, and 
genuine earnestness of tone, which 
told irresistibly on many eager 
minds not to be reached by conven- 
tional modes of representing re- 
ligious and moral truth. 

Mr. Carlyle*s criticism on 
Eing^ley's "Alton Locke** is at once 
characteristic and just. *' Apart 
from your treatment of my own 
poor self (on which subject let us 
not venture to speak at all), I found 
plenty to like and to be grateful for 
in the book ; abundance, nay exu- 
berance of generous zeal ; headlong 
impetuosity of determination to- 
wards the manful side on all man- 
ner of questions ; snatches of ex- 
cellent poetic description, occasional 
outbursts of noble thought ; every- 
where a certain intensity, which 
holds the reader fast as by a spell ; 
these surely are good qualities, and 
pregnant omens in a man of your 
seniority in the regiment. At the 
same time, I am bound to say, the 
book is definable as crude; by no 
manner of means the best we ex- 
pect of you — if you will resolutely 
temper your fire. But to make the 
mnlt sweet, the fire should and 
must be slow : so says the pro- 
verb,- and now, as before, I in- 
elude all duties for you under that 

So many of Kingsley's writings 

were of an occasional character, 
being intended to suit a temporary 
state of things, that it is doubtful 
whether they will live long. He 
himself doubted whether anything 
but his poetry, with perhaps his 
" Hypatia,*' would escape oblivion. 
His ballads — especially *' The Three 
Fishers," and **The Lay of the 
Last Buccaneer," will long be bad 
iu remembrance, nor will^ his 
*^ Saint's Tragedy," his first pub- 
lished work soon perish. No doubt 
Mr. Martineau is correct in describe 
ing his genius as essentially and 
pre-eminently poetic This is ap- 
parent in his mode of treating 
whatever subject he took in hand, as 
also in his habits of study. He was 
completely the creature of impulse, 
passion and imagination. Hence it 
is not surprising that the Professor- 
ship of History at Cambridge, 
though gratifying as an honourable 
position, proved uitimately unsuit* 
able for iiim. To fulfil the duties 
satisfactorily, required more time, 
steady application, and patient 
consideration than he could give. 
He would spare no pains in studying 
a particular period, so as to produce 
an accurate and picturesque reprer 
sentation of it ; but he had neither 
the power nor the inclination to enter 
into the philosophy of history, 
tnicing tiie connection of events 
with each other, and pointing out 
the general principles to be deduced 
from them. At the same time his 
lectures are allowed on all hands to 
have been highly interesting and 

On resigning his Professorship 
he was made Canon of Chester, 
where he won all hearts, and 
awakened quite an enthusiasm for 
natural science by his lectures and 
classes, besides attracting many to 
the cathedral by his eloquent and 
impressive sermon?. Hisshorttenure 
of the Canonry of "Westminster, 
which followed tha<« C'f Chester 
after four vears, wan enually re- 


Literary Notices. 


inarkable for the success of bis 
pulpit ministrations. Ere two 
years bad passed they were brought 
to an untimely end by bis death, 
wbich excited general regret from 
the throne to the cottage. 

Mrs. Kingsley has executed her 
task with admirable taste and 
feeling. Not a word can be found 
in these two volumes to give pain to 
any one, nothing unsuitable for the 
public eye, even if, as some may 
think, portions of sermons and ad- 
dresses, together with some of the 
letters, might as well have been 
omitted. If this be the case — as to 
which there will be two opinions — 
it is surely a very pardonable fault. 
Every one must sympathise with 
Mrs. Kingsley*d touching and 
beautiful words at the close : — 

"Over the real romance of his 
life, and over the tenderest, loveliest 
passages in his private letters, a veil 
must he thrown ; but it will not be 
lifting it too far to say, that if in the 
highest, closest of earthly relation, 
ships, a love that never failed— 
pure, patient, passionate for six- 
and-thirty-years — a love whicb never 
stooped from its own lofty level to 
a hasty word, an impatient gesture, 
or a selfisb act, in sickness or in 
health, in sunshine or in storm, by 
day or by night, could prove that the 
age of chivalry has not passed away 
for ever, then Charles Kingsley ful« 
filled the ideal of a most true and 
perfect knight, to the one woman 
blest with that love in time and to 

There are just one or two re- 
marks we feel constrained to make 
before concluding. We cannot re- 
frain from expressing our surprise 
and regret that no mention is made 
in these volumes of Kingsley *d 
brother Henry, who gained some 
distinction as a novelist. Wo find 
letters from Kingsley to his father 
and mother. Why not anv to his 
brother? He must surely have 
written some worthy to be com- 

bined with the^e published memo- 
rials of him. The G-reek and Latin 
quotations require correction here 
and there, as also one or two proper 
names. In several instances the 
numbers of the pages referred to in 
the index are incorrect, which 
causes inconvenience. 

Current Coin. By Rev. H. E, 
Haweis, M.A. H. S. King & Co. 
— Mr. Haweid*s " Thoughts for the 
Times " having gone through eleven 
editions, and his *' Speech in 
Season *' through five, he is natu- 
tally encouraged to issue a third 
volume, the object of which he 
states to be "to explain to the many 
what is known to the few." We 
were a little startled to be told 
soon after this ambitious announce- 
ment that the book " in fact con- 
sists of pulpit dii>courses and plat- 
form speeche^i delivered in the course 
of the last year or two,** and still 
more surprised to find two-thirds of 
the volume occupied with sermons 
on crime, pauperism, and drunken- 
ness, and two speeches on recre- 
ation and emotion, delivered at 
South Place Institute, Finsbury. 

We cannot compliment Mr. 
Haweis on the aptness of his title, 
still less of the coins of Tiberius, 
Constantine, and others on the 
cover, with the allegorical little 
sermon, or *' parable,*' upon them 
containing, among other things, the 
sage observation, that it is possible 
some of the grains in the coin 
shown to Jesus Christ may have 
entered into the composition of one 
stamped with the head of Victoria ; 
followed by the far-fetched moral, 
that so, while relimous truth re- 
mains the same in all ages, it *' has 
to be re-stated and re-stamped, and 
changed over and over again in out- 
ward form as the ages roll on." 
This, then, is what Mr. Haweia 
here proposes to do in a book not 


Literary Notices. 


more than one-third of which has 
nnj connection with religion. Even 
•apposing all his statements to be 
troths, the greater proportion of 
them cannot with propriety be 
called religious truths, and the 
^ parable " is consequently not ap- 
propriate, however ingenious it maj 

^ Mr. Haweis with great frankness 
disclaims all pretension to origin- 
ality, and mentions the sources from 
irhich his materials are derived. He 
is an expounder, not an originator. 
As such he is certainly successful. 
He has a very clear and forcible 
way of putting things, which 
renders it impossible not to under- 
stand them. His style is also 
lively and engaging, pointed and 
effective. The only question is, 
whether in his laudable anxiety to 
rivet the attention and influence 
the minds of his hearers, he does 
not sometimes overshoot the mark, 
like Mr. Spurgeon, whom he com- 
mends. It appears to us that his 
tone is not always so reverent as 
might be expected from a reverend 
gentleman. The contrast between 
his "free handling " of sacred be- 
liefs and that of the Essays and 
Beviews, shows the change — pro- 
gress some would call it — which 
has been made in these matters 
during the last fifteen years. 

The first discourse on materi- 
alism opens with almost a plavful 
description of the various religious 
controversies between Protestantism 
and Romanism, Church and Dis- 
sent, Evangelicanism and Ration- 
alism, while the very foundations 
of all religion are in great danger. 
The question to be decided is not 
now, he says, whether the Eomish 
or Protestant Church is the true 
one, but whether there is anv 
Church at all ; not whether the Trini- 
tarian or the Unitarian belief is 
correct, but whether there is a per- 
sonal Deity, and whether man has a 
•oul which will live after the death 

of the body. These are the vital 
questions which he charges others 
with overlooking, and which he un- 
dertakes to discuss. He does not 
show a very just apprehension of 
their magnitude and depth in pre- 
tending to settle them in a single 
popular discourse; nor does he 
treat them with the solemnity they 
are calculated to inspire in every 
thoughtful mind. Professor Tyn- 
dall's mode of touching upon these 
hi^h themes is far more serions and 

Mr. Haweis gives a striking, not 
to say startling, description of the 
present state of religious belief, or 
rather unbelief. He represents the 
young as ** growing up without a 
religion, because they do not believe 
in the religious opinions of the 
old,'* and the old as not believing in 
their own religious opinions, but 
being "afraid to say so, because 
they have nothing definite to put in 
their place." He, on the contrary, 
thinks this the very time to speak 

His notion is, like that of the 
Bishop of Exeter — that the mere 
utterance of doubt tends to dissi- 
pate doubt, and re-establish faith. 
How this can be, is not very easy 
to understand. If doubts are re- 
solved, and difficulties removed, the 
advantage of open discussion is ob- 
yious enough ; but supposing it 
leads simply to the exposure of 
weak points, and ineffectual at- 
tempts to answer objections, it is 
far more likely to aggravate than 
dissipate doubt. 

Mr. Haweis must be a sanguine 
man if he supposes he has com- 
pletely and for ever exorcised the 
spirit of unbelief by his r/chau0 
of Dr. Martineau*s address at 
Manchester New College, and ar- 
ticles in the Contemporary Beview. 
It requires more power and deeper 
thought than he shows to accom- 
plish that feat. He is certainly 
nappy, though scarcely serioua 


Literary Notices. 


enough, in his treatment of the » 
various hypotheses of ihaterialist 
pliilosophers. It is when he comes 
to state his own views that he be- 
comes less satisfactory, dealiug too 
often in unsupported astseriion, or 
contenting himself with a mere 
possible conjecture. Thus he says : 
— ** Mind really underlies even those 
phenomena of the universe which 
at first seem most mechanical." 
Not to insist upon the circumstance, 
that he has nowhere explained pre- 
cisely what he means by mind, it is 
sufficient to observe, that what he 
here asserts, is the very point in 
dispute, which he must not expect 
his adversary to admit without some 
sort of proof. As he himself else- 
where says, simply to state is not 
to explain, but to dogmatize. 
Equally inconclusive is the fol- 
lowing argument : — " Admitted that 
mind in the universe is homoge- 
neous, of the same kind is mind in 
the man, and what hinders the 
establishment of affectional rela- 
tions between the Divine and the 
human, between God and roan p 
His act towards me is not merely 
negative, because I can feel Him, 
and He can feel me. 

''He seeks in me the reflec- 
tion of Himself. He loves in me 
the evolution of the perfect out of 
the imperfect. He pours out upon 
me (now but a rudiment of what I 
may become) the life that is in 
Himself, that I may rise into higher 
life, and win freer relations through 
my successive stages of heavenly 
trial and discipline." 

This is all well enough in a ser- 
mon addressed to a popular audience 
already persuaded of the truth of 
the conclusion at which the preacher 
is aiming. But is it likely to satisfy 
•those eager, unsettled minds that 
worship the new lights in philo- 
sophy, mentioned by Mr. Haweis ? 
•Would it bear to be taken to pieces 
w.-we do not say by so consummate 
A logiciaa.aa Dr. Newman — but by 

any one conversant with the first 
principles of logical method ? 
Would it survive even such sharp 
treatment as Mr. Haweis himself 
applies to materialistic theories? 
The fact is, preaching is one things 
proving another; and in attempting 
to demonstrate by argument the 
existence and attributes of God, 
Mr. Haweis has undertaken a ta>k 
which Kant and thoughtful men in 
general who have considered the 
subject, pronounce to be impossible^ 
Elsewhere he takes the safer ground,, 
that '* religion and the perception 
of spiritual things is not a matter 
for the bead, but for the inmost 
heart.*' This principle is intel- 
ligible ; if it be frankly adopted and 
consistently maintained as the foun- 
dation on which to build religious 
truth, no objection can be made^ 
except that, fully carried out, it 
leads to mere mysticism. But to 
depend professedly on reason, and 
really fall back in every emergency 
on spiritual perception, is not con* 
sistent or satisfactory, nor can we 
think it likely '* to dissipate dopbt 
itself, and re-establish faith in 

Mr. Haweis talks about *' tho 
slowness nnd timidity of religious 
teachers '* in not discussing these 
burning questions before popular 
hearers and readers, and he hastens 
to supply their lack of useful ser- 
vice in defence of religion with 
more boldness than discretion, more 
promising pretension than success* 
ful performance, more confidence m 
himself than he is likely to inspire 
in others. It must amuse some ta 
learn from him that science and 
philosophy have failed, and must 
now make way for ** one mightier 
than they — theology." 

Mr. Haweis chuckles over the 
prevalent '* profound distrust of the 
current theology," apparently un- 
-conscious that many will feel equal 
distrust of his " Current Coin." 

This remark applies with speeial 


Literary Notices, 


force to his second sermon on the 
DeTil, which is neither very clear in 
its statements, nor well-established 
in its conclusions. Mr Haweis 
seems anxious to di.^proye the 
existence of an arch-fiend, while he 
maintains that there is no reason 
for disbelieying that people now 
living may, after their death, ** find 
border-land conditions,*' through 
which they may exert an evil in- 
fluence over those whom they have 
left behind, thus becoming, in fact, 
devils. It is bard to see the ad- 
vantage of speculating in this way 
as to what may be, or of Mr. 
Haweis's profound observation, 
that if the pretensions of spiritists 
''to produce intelligence of some 
kind, acting upon matter, and 
yet unconnected with a brain 
and a nervous system, could be 
proved, the materialist argument 
would at once fall.'* Truisms of 
this kind, which seem inseparable 
from sermons, are found in other 
parts of the book. Thus we are 
gravely told, ** AH perceived error 
should be avoided, and the best 
expression of Christ's religion up- 

The so-called Obiter Dicta at the 
end of the volume, which are de- 
scribed by the author as *' germs of 
thought, capable of future expan- 
sion," are bits and scraps of sermons 
on various religious topics, requir- 
ing much more extensive treat- 
ment. They are, in fact, the small 
change in Mr. Ilaweis's ** Current 

As to the remaining chapters, 
which form the greater part of the 
book, we have only to observe that, 
beyond tiie statistical information 
which the author has taken the 
pains to collect from trustworthy 
sources, they contain nothing which 
is known only to the few, and he 
is quite right in not wishing to 
claim any credit for the original 
matter in them, which though no 
doubt acceptable enough to hear, 

was scarcely worth publishing as a 
recoinage of religious truth. 

We cannot conclude without 
calling attention to one or two 
errors. " Cornucopia " is probably 
a printer's blunder ; so is per- 
haps the spelling of Mr. G. H. 
Lewes's name as " Lewis," re- 
peatedly in the body of the work, 
though it is correctly spelt in the 
preface. But we fear that the 
author is answerable for tlie follow- 
ing fault : *' Even to state the difiB- 
culties that we may not be able to 
answer often relieves the over- 
burdened mind, and helps us to see 
more clear,** A more serious prac- 
tical inconvenience is the incorrect 
paging of the index. 

The Huguenots, their Settlements, 
Churches, and Industries in England 
and Ireland, By S. Smiles. Lon- 
don : John Murray. — The purport 
of this work is not exactly such as 
its title indicates. Mr. Smiles 
states its object to be, ** to give 
an account of the causes which 
led to the great migrations of 
Flemish and French Protestants 
from Flanders and France into 
England, and to describe th'eir 
effects upon English industry as 
well as English history." The 
title is of a more limited character. 
It gives no hint as to any discus- 
sion of the causes which led to the 
migrations, and leads one to expect 
an account, not of the Flemish, but 
the French Protestants, who were 
driven to this country by the revo- 
cation of the Edict of Nantes. 
Whatever may be the derivation of 
the word Huguenots — which is a 
matter of uncertainty — it is un- 
questionably a French word, and 
applied to French Protestants. We 
are not aware of any authority for 
using it to designate Protestants of 
Flanders, or any other country than 

Taking Mr. Smiles's book as an 


Literary Notices. 


account of both the Flemish Pro- 
testant migration, at the close of 
the sixteenth century, and the 
French one, a century later, it 
roust he considered rather, as he 
says, '* a contribution to the study 
of the subject," than an exhaust- 
ive work. A full and masterly 
handling of such a topic requires 
deeper research and a more philo- 
sophical turn of mind than Mr, 
Smiles has shown, His forte is bio- 
graphy. It waa his '* Life of George 
Stephenson" that first made him 
known as a writer ; and all his sub- 
sequent works — including " Self 
Help,*' his greatest success — are 
chiefly composed of biographical 
anecdotes. But the subject he has 
here taken in hand belongs to his- 
tory rather than to biography, and 
history is something more than a 
collection of biographies. 

Mr. Smiles is more successful 
in dealing with individuals than 
classes. His account of the Hu- 
guenots aa a body is meagre and 
insufficient. The first chapter, on 
the '* Rise of the Huguenots," con- 
tains only a single short paragraph 
about them, and that merely in- 
forms us that the origin of the name 
is uncertain. All the rest of the 
chapter is taken up with sketchy 
accounts of the invention of print- 
ing, Luther*s first sight of a printed 
bible, the persecution of printers, 
the sale of indulgences, and other 
matters not very closely connected 
with the subject in hand. Mr. 
Smiles*s fondness for biographical 
detail often leads him too far away. 
It is hard to see the relevancy of 
many of the topics on which he 
dilates, as e.^.,the Spanish Armada, 
the death of Mary Queen of Scots, 
the settlements of the Huguenots in 
Brandenburgh, Holland, Switzer- 
land, the Cape of Good Hope, and 
the United States, and the whole of 
the last chapter on the French Bevo- 
lution. Even supposing Mr. Smiles 
correct in regarding this great event 

as caused by the revocation of the 
Edict of Nantes and the consequent 
flight of Protestants from France 
— which is more than most people 
will be disposed to grant — we can- 
not see what it has to do with the 
Huguenots in England and Ireland. 
Mr. Smiles furnishes valuable 
information with regard to the 
Protestant migration from Flanders, 
the towns and districts in England, 
Scotland, and Ireland, where the 
emigrants settled, the branches of 
industry they introduced, and the 
beneficial influence they exerted 
wherever they went. He also gives 
interesting particulars with regard 
to the persecution of the Huguenots 
itndcr Louis XIV., and their narrow 
escapes. Among these we may in- 
stance the account of the adventures 
of Dumont de Bostaquet, a Pro- 
testant gentleman, possessed of 
large landed property in Normandy, 
who with great difficulty and 
through many dangers escaped, 
severely wounded, to Holland. The 
story, which is derived from his own 
statement, has all the thrilling in- 
terest of a novel. The escape of 
Jacques Pinctou, pastor of a Pro- 
testant village near Avignon, and 
his wife, who fled in a different 
direction, is also romantic. Equally, 
if not more, worthy of attention, is 
the account of James Fontaine, 
who belonged to the noble family 
of De la Fontaine. On hearing of 
the Edict of Bevocation, he deter- 
mined to effect his escape from 
France, with three ladies : — 

At Marennes, the captain of an 
English ship was found, willing to give 
the party a passage to England. It 
was at first intended that they should 
rendezvous on the sands near Tremh- 
lade, and then proceed privily on ship- 
hoard. But the coast was strictly 
guarded, especially between Boyan and 
La Bochelle, where the Protestants of 
the interior were constantly seeking 
outlets for escape ; and this part of the 
plan was given up. The search of 
vessels leaving the ports had become so 


Literary Xotices. 


stziet, ihat the EDglisli captain feared 
that even if Fontaine and his ladies 
succeeded in getting on board, it would 
&ot be possible for him to conceal them, 
ar prevent their falling into the hands 
of the Kings detectives. He there- 
fore proposed that his ship should set , 
sail, and that the fugitives should put 
out to sea and wait for him, when he 
would take them on board. It proved 
fortunate that this plan was adopted ; 
for, scarcely had the English merchant- 
man left Tremblade, than she was 
boarded and s«>arched by a French 
ficigate on the look-out for fugitive 
Protestants. No prisoners were fouud ; 
and the captain of the merchantman 
was ordered to proceed at once to his 

*'^ Meanwhile, the boat containing the 
fugitives having put out to sea, as ar- 
ranged, lay-to, waiting the approach of 
the English vessel. That tliey mijjht 
not be descried from the frigate, which 
was close at hand, the boatmen made 
them lie down ia the bottom of the 
boat covering them with an old sail. 
Thej all knew the penalties to which 
they were liable if detected in the 
attempt to escape— Fontaine, the boat- 
man, and his son, to condemnation to 
the galleys for life ; and the three ladies 
to imprisonment for life. The frigate 
bore down upon the boat and hailed 
the boatman, who feigned drunkenness 
80 well that he completely deceived the 
captain, who, seeing notliing but the 
old sail in the bottom of the boat, 
ordered the frigate s head to be put about, 
when it sailed away in the direction of 
Rochefort. Shortly after, while she 
was still in sight, though distant, the 
agreed signal was given by the boat 
to the merchantman (that of dropping 
the sail three times in the apparent 
attempt to hoist it), on which the 
English vessel lay to, and took the exiles 
on board. After a voyage of eleven 
days, they reached the welcome asylimi 
of England, and Fontaine and the party 
landed at Barnstaple, North Devon, — 
)»s sole property consisting of twenty 

Eistoles and six silver spoons, which 
ad belonged to his father, and 
bore upon them his infantine ini- 
tials, J. D. L. F.— Jacques de la Fon- 

•• Fontaine and tlie three ladies were 
hospitably received by Mr. Donne of 
Barnstaple, with whomthey lived until 

a home could be provided for their re- 
ception. One of the first things which 
occupied Fontaine's attention was, how 
to earn a living for their support. A 
cabin-biscuit, which he bought for a 
hal^nny, gave him his first hint. The 
biscuit would have cost twopence in 
France; and it at once occurred to 
him that, such being the case, grain 
might be shipped from England to 
France at a profit. Mr. Donne agreed 
to advance the money requisite for the 
purpose, taking half the profits. The 
first cargo of com exported proved very 
profitable ; but Fontaine's partner 
afterwards insisting on changing the 
consignee, who proved dishonest, the 
speculation eventually proved unsuc- 

** Fontaine had by tliis time married 
the Huguenot lady to whom he was 
betrothed, and who had accompanied 
liim in his flight to England. After 
the failure of the com speculation, he 
removed to Taunton in Somerset, where 
he made a shift to live. He took 
pupils, dealt in provisions, sold brandy, 
groceries, stockings, leather, tin and 
copper wares, and carried on wool- 
combing, dyeinflr, and the making of 
calimancofs. In short, he was a 
*jack-of-alltrades.' He followed so 
many callings, and occasioned so much 
jealousy in the place, that he was cited 
before the mayor and aldermen as an 
interloper, and required to give an ac- 
count of himself. This and other cir- 
cumstances determined him to give up 
business in Taunton — not, however, 
before he had contrived to save about 
jg 1,000 by his industry — and to enter 
upon the life of a pastor. He had al- 
ready been admitted to holy orders by 
the French Protestant synod at Taun- 
ton, and in 1694 he left that town for 
Ireland in search of a congregation." 

He settled at Cork, where he was 
appointed pastor, and as the congre- 
gation were too poor to pay him, he 
started a woollen-cloth manufactory, 
which furnished employment for the 
people. DissensioD having arisen 
amongst his flock, be resigned his 
pastorate ; and, to occupy his spare 
time, took a farm at Beerhaven, at 
the entrance of Ban try Bay, for the 
purpose of establishing a fisheryt 


Literary Notices. 


in which he did nofc succeed. For 
the Bake of security, he turned his 
residence into a sod fort. In June, 
1704, it was stormed by a French 
privateer, but was defended with 
such courage and ability by him and 
his wife, with the assistance of 
another French and a Scotchman, 
that, after an engagement from 
eight in the morning to four in the 
afternoon, the assailants fled with 
the lo9s of three killed and seven 
wounded. Two years afterwards, a 
more successful attack was made 
during his temporary absence; and 
though he arrived and entered his 
abode before it was captured, he 
was at length compelled to sur- 
render, on condition of being 
allowed to depart with his two sons 
and their followers. No sooner was 
the surrender completed, than they 
were made prisoners, but they were 
shortly afterwards liberated. His 
residence having been completely 
destroyed, he removed to Dublin, 
where he spent the rest of his 
life as a successful teacher of 
languages, mathematics, and forti- 

The chapter on the Descendants 
of the Kefugees, and the Biograph- 
ical Dictionary of them at the end 
of the book, will naturally have 
special interest for those connected 
with them. 

Laurella and other Poems. By 
John Todhunter. London : Henry 
S. King and Co. — The poems in this 
volume— most of which, we are told, 
were written long ago, and several 
have appeared in magazines — are 
arranged in 6ve classes, under the 
headings : Tales, Miscellaneous 
Pieces, The Mystic, Sonnets, and 
PriraitisB. From this it will be 
evident that there is no lack of 
variety in the collection. Mr. Tod- 
hunter has essayed many themes 
and forms of poetry. Sometimes 

he is grave and thoughtful, at others 
light and playful, now descriptive, 
and then imaginative, often mystical 
and vague, appearing to sing, as he 
says : — 

" Of dreams beyond his cunning to ex- 

It is only doing him justice to say, 
that in these varied moods and the 
different metres he has tried, he 
affords evidence of undeniable power 
and bold freedom of touch. His 
freedom too often degenerates into 
lawlessness, rendering his verse rug- 
ged and unmusical. He is apt to 
thrust an extra syllable into a foot, 
to change the metre irregularly, and 
to misplace the accents on syllables. 
A few lines taken at random will 
illustrate our meaning . — 

** O hitter doom ! O trance of pain ! 
My gentle love, wandering in vain. 
Forsaken by the Mere of Dreams, 
Through the land of woods and 

Seeks me with solitary feet." 

It requires some management to read 
all these lines in the same measure 
ais the first. 

Mr. Todhunter is most successful 
in his tales. Laurella, the longest 
poem in the book, is a rendering of 
Heyse's powerful prose tale, La 
Kabbiata. Mr. Todhunter relates 
the story in vigorous verse, which 
captivates the attention and stirs the 
heart with deep emotion. The hero 
of the tale is Antonio, shortened to 
Tonio, a boatman, who plies for hire 
between Sorrento and Capri. He is 
thus described : — 

"This Tonio (he*s omr hero) was a 
A smart young fellow of the fisher 
To climb, row, swim, or sail a boat, 
in sooth. 
In all the coast his peer 'twere hard 
to find ; 
His clear brown face, too, wore a look 
of truth 
Rare in those parts; his limbs 
were well designed, 


Literary Notices, 


At least for Nature's handivrork ; for 

She often moulds our human clay, 

but poorly." 

These last two lines are, to say the 
least, in had taste. Some may think 
them almost profane, as well as want- 
ing in good sense. 

Jjaurella, the heroine, is a high- 
spirited eccentric girl, whose stern 
rejection of all love advances has 
gained her the nickname of La 
Babbiata,ortheFury. Tonio, whohas 
long cherished a secret affection for 
her, urges his suit with importunity 
as they are together alone in his 
boat; but, instead of yielding, she 
stings him ^^ith biting reproaches. 
Then follows this exciting scene — 


** He leaped upon his feet and stamped 
with rage. 
Making her heart bound like a 
startled deer. 
• Here you shall do my bidding, I'll 
engage ; 
You're in my power, Miss — I'm 
your master here.' 
Lanrella felt like one cooped in the 
Of some wild beast, and the cold 
touch of fear 
Crept oer her cheek; yet with un- 
daunted air 
She faced him : * You may kill mo if 
you dare.' 


" * Your blood be on your head,' he 
groaned ; * the sea 
WiU huld us both ! None ever so 
loved bride ; 
But now — ! God, you have willed 
it — it must be ! 
To-night we shall be lying side by 
Cold, but together. You have mad- 
dened me, 
And now, Christ pardon us ! ' 
Then at a stride 
He came, as Death might— with pale, 

piteous face. 
To clasp some loved one in his chill 


** He bent to seize her, but with startled 
Drew back. Without a word she 
Imd let liim come ; 
But the roused tigress does not tamely 
She hid made her sharp white 
teeth meet in the thumb 
That grasped her ; then flung off her 
Scared by her fierce rebellion, deep 
though dumb. 
' Now am I in your power,' she cried, 

* or free?' 
And, laughing wildly, leaped into the 


" She sank, but rose again, and boldly 
Her arms upon the water — her 
long hair 
Loosed in the plunge, afloat behind 
her head. 
The wavelets rippling round her 
bosom fair. 
Sobered by shock, yet palsied half 
with dread, 
With neck outcraned, Tonio could 
only stare, 
As though God's blessed bread for 

sinners broken, 
Between his lips, against his sins, had 


" Then, slapping his dank brow, he 
seized his oars. 
And in lier wake rowed swiftly ; 
though the blood 
From his torn thumb came ' rushing 
out of doors, 
To be resolved if ' gentle creature 
Inflict such wounds as that. The 
chase of course, 
Though a stern one, was not long 
— flesh against wood 
Had not a chance. He soon was at 

her side— 
' For God's sake come aboard 
again ! ' he cried. 


" ' Lanrella, hear mo ! you may trust 
me now — 
Come in, come in, for our dear 
Lady's sake — 


Literary Notices. 


I am mad no more* by all the saiato 
I vow! 
O if you come to harm my heart 
will break ! 

Hate me, but trust nie. Come, and 
m allow 
You tie my wrists and ankles till 
they ache, 

Then fling me in the sea. I will not 

To vex yon— do not ask you to for- 


She deigned no notice of this fond 

But for the distant shore swam 

bravely on, 
Ooing along easily as a little seal. 
Her bare feet tlirongh the water 

glancing wan. 
* Think of your mother— think what 

she will feel 
If yon should sink,' he said, ' and, 

ere you have gone 
A third the distance home, you must 

go down — 
Yon land's two miles oflF yet — why 

will you drown ? * 


'^ This was bare truth, she knew. She 
eyed the land 
Wistfully once ; then, with a swell- 
ing throat. 
Swam up without a word. He stretched 
his hand 
To draw her in, but, clutching at 
the boat. 
She clambered o'er the gunwale, with 
a grand 
Last pride of independence. Tonic's 
Slipped, as his craft lurched with 

Laurella^s weight. 
O'er board, and went unrescued to its 

Before the day is oat she goes to his 
cottage with herbs to heal his wound, 
and ends by roshiog to his arms and 
confessing her love, against which 
she had long striven through fear of 
such ill-usage as she had seen her 
mother undergo from her father. 
The next tale, ''The Daughter of 
Hippocrates,*' founded on a legend, 
is also told with powerful effect. 

The " Miscellaneous Poems ** and 
others composed entirely of the 
writer's own materials, do not reach 
the same standard of excellence. 
**The Mystic*' is a collection of 
dreamy obscure pieces, preceded by 
a preface, which is itself worth read- 
ing, for the account it gives of the 
singular character to whom the 
authorship is ascribed. The five 
lines quoted above are from a poem 
in this collection, called " A Song of 
Secrets,'* in which the secrets are so 
well kept, that we have failed to dis- 
cover them. Not only are we unable 
to see through many of Mr. Tod- 
hunter's clouds, but we cannot even 
tell whither they are drifting. Among 
the '* PrimitiflB " he has what he fan- 
tastically calls '* A Moonlight Sona- 
ta," with its "Adagio" movement 
followed in due course, by the ** Al- 
legretto," " Minore," " Scherzo." 
'•Andante Tranquillo," *' Andante 
con moto," and *' Adagio Misterioso." 
Mysterious indeed is, not only this 
movement, but the whole composition, 
which is a series of visionary fancies 
in irregular metre, having little con- 
nection together and no obvious 
drift. Mr. 'lodhunter seems to be 
a musician as well a poet, if we may 
judge from the number of his poems 
relating to music and musicians. He 
has a good sonnet on Beethoven 
among others. 

We are surprised that, with the 
knowledge he shows of classical 
literature, he should write ** Aphro^ 
deife** tLnd**thyr8e9,** His violent 
separation of words closely connected 
is a grave fault. As a glaring in- 
stance we may quote : — 

** Back on the wings of Time, to lands 
far distant, and saw the 
Tents of a wandering race, the tents 
of our Aryan fathers." 

nJJT ^^y, llie Servmit of 
Jehovah. A Commentary^ Oram" 
matical and Critical, upon Ittdak 


Literary Notices. 


111. 13 — liii. 12. With dissertattou9 
upon the aatborship of Isaiah xl.— 
IxTi., and upon the signiGcation of 
the rrtiT Tiy;, Also a note upon 

the distinction between Sin and 
Trespass Offerings. Bj W. Urwick, 
M.A. Edinburgh : T. and T. Clark. 
— The late Dr. Urwick was for 
many years known and honoured in 
Dublin, and his son, the author of 
the work before us, has proved 
himself worthy of the name he bears, 
having already published several 
works of merit, and now occupying 
the honourable post of Tutor io 
Hebrew at New College, London. 
It is very evident from his present 
work that in Hebrew scholarship, 
and biblical interpretation, he is well 
able to hold his own among the 
most eminent critics and comraen- 
tators, whether German or English. 
He is familiar with all the latest 
results of the so-called higher 
criticism, which he discusses with 
frreat ability and admirable temper. 
Clear and decided in his own views, 
which he states and defends without 
reserve or compromise, he sliows 
every willingness to give those of 
others a full and fair consideration. 

It is beyond our province to at- 
tempt any elaborate analysis of a 
production involving abstruse points 
of scholarship and theology. We 
can only furnish a general descrip- 
tion of its contents. Its purport 
cannot be explained bettor than in 
the author's own words — 


Confronting; the traditional and 
unsophisticated belief of Christendom 
down to the present century, we have 
now-a-days the assertions confidently 
made by scholars, Jewish Rnd Christian, 
not a few, that the prophecy so called 
of Isaiah xl.-lxvi. was not written till 
more than a century after the great 
Isaiah was dead ; that it is not a pro- 
phecy, but a picture by a contemporary 
of the sorrows and hopes of the exile ; 
that the Servant of Jehovah in chap- 
ter liii. does not mean the Messiali at 
all ; and, in a word, that the Old Tes- 
tament knows nothing of a suffering 

Messiah. These views, indeed, are by 
some persons regarded as matters of 
fact that have passed out of the region 
of controversy, and that are to be taken 
for granted as true ; and they look upon 
it as a sign of sheer ignorance to hold 
any other." 

" Candidly and thoroughly to ex- 
amine the grounds of this new ortho- 
doxy in one department of it, is the 
object of the present work. The first 
Dissertation concerns the authorship 
of Isaiah xl.-lxvi. — a question which i& 
distinct from that which follows ; for^ 
of course, it is possible to hold the 
Exile authorship, and, nevertlieless. to 
embrace the Messianic interpretation. 
The second Dissertation is upon the 
meaning and reference of the expres- 
sion Servant of Jehovah in the pro- 
phecy. Hereupon follows a gramma- 
tical and exegetical commentary upon 
the central prophecy, lii. 13 — liii. 12, 
where the Levitical ritual and the 
sacrifice on Calvary meet, and which 
is supplemented by a ^ote upon the 
sin and trespass offerings of the Jewish 

In the first dissertation Mr. Urwick 
maintains that the latter, as well as 
the first thirty-nine chapters of 
Isaiah are the work of that prophet, 
and he brings a powerful array of 
argument in support of his position. 
Those who assign the latter chapters 
of the book to a later period, make 
much of certain differences of 
language which they perceive be- 
tween these and the earlier chapters, 
Mr. Urwick examines these alleged 
differences one by one, and finds that 
out of twenty-eight words and ex- 
pressions stated to be found only in 
the later chapters, all but two are in 
the earlier ones also, though not in 
the same form or conjugation, and 
the so-called peculiarities of meaning 
are simply new interpretations in- 
vented by those who argue for the 
later authorship. He maintains that 
the twenty-two alleged chaldeeisms 
are not undeniably chaldee forms, and 
points out striking and undesigned 
coincidences of language and cir- 
cumstances between the two portions, 


Literary Notices, 


vihich strongly favour their common 

In the second dissertation the 
author contends that the passage 
Isaiah Hi. 13 — liii. 12, relates to the 
Messiah, as the Jews themselves 
originally interpreted it, and nearly 
all Christendom till the beginning of 
this century. On this passage he 
bursts forth into a strain of powerful 
eloquence. ** Its words and phrases 
have been incorporated into the com- 
mon prayers and loftiest songs of 
every section of the Christian Church, 
and have inspired the genius of the 
most gifted musical composers, 
giving sacredness and sublimity to 
their compositions, which in turn 
have helped to display now the 
moving pathos, and anon the majestic 
glory of the words. . . . This witness 
of Christendom, the witness of a 
thousand penitents in every age, of 
* ten thousand times ten thousand 
and thousands of thousands,* whose 
i*ames echo in long and ceaseless 
sound like the waves and ripples of 
Che sea as they break upon the shore, 
testifying that herein they have 
found the sure basis, and the full 
expression of their common faith 
and liope — ris in itself a sort of evi- 
dence and argument for the Messianic 

In the commentary on this cele- 
brated passage the author gives each 
verse in iielrew, the Greek Septua- 
gint, e:nd the Latin Vnlgate, followed 
by a grammatical analysis and in- 
terpretation of each word, with 
discussion of the various interpre- 
tations of other commentators, in- 
cluding the most distinguished of 
every school and shade of belief. 
Hebrew students may derive valuable 
assistance from this part of the 
work, which may be cons^ulted with 
interest and advantage by theological 
scholars generally. 

Annus Amoris, By. J, W. Inch- 
bold. London : . Henry S. King 

& Co.— Though Mr. Inchbold baa 
not, we believe, previously published 
any volume of poetry, this is not 
his first appearance in print as a 
poet. Three of the sonnets here 
collected were inserted in the 
Chraphicy and one in the Portfolio. 
He must have iong cultivated 
poetry as an accessory to the sister 
art of painting, in which be has ob- 
tained snch well-known excellence. 

Every painter ought to be some- 
thing of a poet, and in fact must be, 
if he is to produce any picture of real 
value. Both painter and poet live in 
an ideal world, peopled with objects 
purer, brighter, and lovelier than any 
to be found in the sphere of reality. 
What Shakspeare says of '' the 
poet's eye in. a fine frenzy rolling," 
and his imagination bodying forth 
" the forms of things unknown," is 
equally true uf the painter. The 
only difference between the two is 
that the one uses the pen and the 
other the brush to give to **airy 
nothings a local habitation and a 
name." Each is a disciple of art; 
and, to adopt the phraseology of 
Mr. Inch hold's sonnet on Art, 
weaves '* fair forms that cannot 
die ; " or, as Shelley puts it, *• Forms 
more real than living man, nurse* 
lings of immortality ! " 

Mr. Inchbold's poetry, like hb 
painting, shows purity of taste and 
carefulness of execution. He has 
chosen for the vehicle of his thoughts 
and emotions the sonnet, which with 
its stringent laws and high require- 
ments calls for the greatest effort 
and the utmost elaboration. Like 
Petrarch, he confines himself to one 
main theme, the several aspects of 
which supply him with the material 
for his separate sonnets. Petrarch's 
had the advantage of being a living 
embodied reality, an object of pas- 
sion as well as thought, though his 
sonnets indicate more studied arti- 
fice than genuine feeling. The 
Italian language, too, lends itself 
more readily to the exigencies of 


Literary Notices. 


the metre than English. Mr. Inch- 
bold mokes abstract love the subject 
of his son g, but is obliged every 
now and then* to introduce an ima- 
ginary Laum as the object of his 
affection. Considering the difE- 
oulties of the task he imposed upon 
himself, his success is greater than 
night have been expected. If the 
beauties of his work are neither 
very striking nor thickly strewn, 
the blemishes are neither glaring 
nor numerous. It is not to be 
•expected that his sonnets should 
have the exquisite grace of Pe- 
trarch's, the passion of Shaks- 
peare's, or the depth of Words- 
worth's; but they are elaborate 
productions, in which sound 
thought and right feeling inter- 
mingle with picturesque descrip- 
tion and pleasing fancy. lb is 
only natural that Mr. Inchbold 
ehould excel in describing the 
aspects of nature. Of tiiis the 
following sonnet may be taken as 
an example : — 


** The sun's full orb dipped in the quiet 

With tints more deeply dyed tlian 

loom of Tyre, 
Arrayed in clouds of glory gorgeously. 
And ere ho sank I felt his ray of fire, 
Wherewith illumined seemed life's 

cloudy ways ; 
But looking esat and north and south 

I saw 
The clouds were .touched by those 

same fiery rays 
Which soon became cold-grey and 

pale, and niw. 
When all illusions vanished from my 

I knew ten years had passed since 

first we met. 
Perhaps another ten ere meet wc may. 
Ten years of tliis world's littleness 

and fret, 
But sweetened with the faith thou 

know'st so well, 
Which passes not, be sure, with pass- 
ing bell." 

In his sonnet on Art, to which 

we have already referred, and which 
wo will now quote, Mr. Inchbold 
ventures upon a higher strain of 
thought, and acquits himself 
well : — 

" ART. 

" Mysterious force, as beautiful as 

And pure with beauty and with 

Queen of the world in wide extent 

of range. 
Through every motion of the sky 

and sea. 
And the sweet mother of all joy, our 

Whether in moment of her snowy 

Or autumn eve, or summer noon, or 

Of spring time o'er an Alpine moun- 
tain's crest. 
To touch thy robe is life, but to 

Thy touch of fiery lip, then pierce 

with eye 
Made clear and strong, and after- 
wards to weave 
With all our heart, fair forms that 

cannot die : — 
This bliss supreme being ours, thine 

own free gift, 
Mukos life one joy, and dull time 

keen and swift. " 

The last lino but one suffers 
from making the word " bein^ " a 
monosyllable, and the last line 
strike:) us as rather a lame and im- 
potent conclusion. 

Forty Years Since ; or^ Italy and 
Rome : A Sketch, By Lord Wa- 
veney, F.U.S. London : Kidgway. 
— It is not so much the state of 
Italy and Rome forty years ago that 
Lord Waveney discusses in, what 
he not inaptly calls, his ** pamph- 
let,'' as the present state of things 
in the civil government, the church, 
and the army. Having visited 
Rome after an absence of forty 
years for the purpose of observing 
the working of the new order of 


Literary Notices. 

[Feb. 1877. 

things, he was so struck with the 
contrast — greater than he antici* 
pated — between the stagnant decay 
of the past and the healthy pro- 
gress of the present, that he deter- 
mined to communicate to the pub- 
lic the results of his observation, 
for the satisfaction of those who 
take an interest in the prosperity 
of regenerated Italy, and constitu- 
tional freedom everywhere. 

It is to be regretted that neither 
is the work well planned, nor are 
the materials sufficiently digested, 
The noble author himself con- 
fesses that it *' has grown beyond the 
original design/* and yet it is incom- 
plete, the important department of 
the navy being omitted. There is 
a great disproportion between the 
component parts. Forty pages, 
about one-fourth of the volume, 
are taken up with translated ex- 
tracts from an Essay by Dr. Panta- 
leoni, a former colleague of Cavour, 
on the position of the Church with 
relation to the State in Italy. On 
the other hand, the three extensive 
subjects, '* agriculture, commerce, 
trade,** are all despatched in five 
sentences occupying less than half 
a page. This is surely a defect in 
construction, which more mature 
consideration would have obviated. 

It is a pity, too, that Lord 
Waveney did not work up the 
substance of the extracts from Dr. 
Pantaleoni*s Essay into a shape 
adapted for English readers, in- 

stead of simply translating them. 
In their present form they are by 
no means readable, or always easy 
for Engli^h people to understand, 
who do not happen to be familiar 
With the ecclesiastical institutions 
and recent history of Italy. Lord 
Waveney speaks of **the philoso- 
phical and exhaustive spirit in 
which this analysis, historical and 
psychical, has been enelaboratedt** 
but we confess that, judging from 
the portions of it here translated,, 
it appears to us wanting in defi- 
niteness of aim and consecutive 
clearness of thought. We are in- 
clined to think part of the obscu- 
rity which here hangs over it, arisea 
from the translation, which is not 
always so distinct or accurate in 
expression as could be wished — a 
remark also applicable to the rest 
of the work. 

Lord Waveney, being a military 
man, has naturally bestowed most 
attention upon the army of Italy,, 
which occupies about half the work, 
and is decidedly the better half. 
Bis lordship furnishes a variety of 
statistical and other information 
with regard to the constitution of 
the army in its several branches, 
and the permanent means of de- 
fence on the coast, in the islands, 
and along the Alpine frontier. He 
proposes to do for the navy at some 
future time what he has here done 
for the army, provided he meets 
with sufficient encouragement. 



MARCH, 1877. 

[Vol. LXXXIX. 


H18TOBIAN8 of tbe French Press 
inyariablygiTe to political journalism 
a starting point in the earlier half 
of the seventeenth century. It may 
aeem presumptuous to question tbe 
accuracy of a date thus unanimously 
and authoritatively accepted; but no 
evidence adduced to support the as- 
sumption of so remote an origin ap- 
pears lidequately consistent. On 
the contrary, all the most pertinent 
facts which can be galiiered to 
elucidate the question tend to 
strengthen the persuasion that it was 
during the excitement and licence 
which attended the death-throes of 
the old French Monarchy that tbe 
periodical political press of France 
entered upon a really conscious and 
active existence. This discrepancy 
is no doubt mainly referrible to a 
difference of weight or value given 
to the expression ** political jour- 

If the privilege conceded to a 
very limited number of periodicals 
to publish certain officially commu- 
nicated political news, and certain 

officially inspired political comments, 
suffices to raise such vehicles of 
official revelations to the dignified 
i^nk of political journals, then the 
earlier date is consistently accurate. 
But if freedom of choice and utter- 
ance — more or less permissively ex- 
pansive — ^is to be regarded as the 
chief life-giving element in the poli- 
tical journal, it would baffle the most 
ingeoiously directed scrutiny to 
discover under the old regime any 
journal, presuming to affect political 
airs, in which there can be detected 
even the shadow of such freedom. 
If it be admitted, however, that 
in the periodical press of France, 
before the overthrow of the 
Monarchy, a political element 
existed at all, that element was as- 
suredly nothing more than the 
political journal in its embryonic 
state. During that quiescent 
condition it was surrounded by 
deleterious moral iufluences which 
imparted to it an indelible stain ; 
whilst, under a ** Royalty tempered 
by pamphlets, and a liberty t^^si^^t^'i^ 


French Political Journalism. 


by lettres de cacTiet,^^ the vast scope 
and power of its inherent capabilities 
could only be guessed at from an 
occasional timorously hazarded 

Born on the eve of the Revolu- 
tion, the political journal sprang 
suddenly into precocious maturity. 
Utterly lacking the strengthening 
influences derived from the varied 
exercise incident Ho progressive 
growth, it was impetuously urged 
to assume the infinitely intricate 
and onerous task of directing the 
French people towards the desired 
goal of political and social regene- 

Before entering upon a brief 
description of the course and 
character of the French political 
journal, a retrospective glance at 
the barely perceptible indications 
which led up to that palpably 
striking course, and to that equally 
definite character, is needed, not 
only as strictly due pre